The Story of Annie Cresta
by thegreatmelanie
Summary: "So that's who Finnick loves... Not his string of fancy Capitol lovers but a poor mad girl back home." The story of Annie Cresta's journey to District Thirteen and her love for Finnick. Currently on hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

My head is going to explode. Death surely wouldn't force me to endure much more… I hope. I'm clinging to the edge of my seat, legs pushed up to my chest, rocking back and forth to the unsteady rhythm of the hovercraft.

Someone is screaming a terrible scream that pierces the very center of my soul, severing with serrated edges. My hands are clapped hard over my ears, nails digging into my flesh. I'm desperate to feel some physical reassurance that I'm alive; that I'm not dead at the moment. Perhaps in a few moments I _will_ be dead. It sounds like people are being tortured. I can't imagine how. Where am I going? Where are they taking me? So many wretched experiences fill my mind. I will probably be next. I don't have the strength to prepare myself mentally.

The dread dawns on me as the screaming continues, building with strength and vigor by the second. It feels like my heart is being torn in two… not just torn, but ripped; shredded into a million malicious pieces. The sound is pounding against my skull, making the edges of my vision burn with red. The screaming comes in waves and tides, washing against my head in sickening repetition. Each receding waves feels like the last until another hits with even greater intensity.

It's rather hard to breathe. I'm gasping, trying desperately to force the stubborn air down my throat. I feel myself screaming in frustration… not that I can hear it over all of the other screams. My nails contract over my ears. I can distantly feel the tiny hairs of my scalp being pulled out.

Faceless people in dirty uniforms are walking around me. They don't look like they are from the Capitol, but there is no way of being sure. A man with dark brown hair and large grey eyes bends down to my level. He's badly bleeding on one shoulder, his hand pressed over the wound, and he winces. His mouth moves, forming a question that I can't hear, and he extends a container of water to me.

I scream in response.

There are shadows swiftly passing over the water, floating behind the man, easing up and down the sides of the hovercraft. One passes over the man's face so close to me that I react instinctively, jerking my head back, and accidentally slamming it into the window behind me.

The painful sensation startles me back into reality with disorienting speed.

"Easy," he says. "Drink this." He holds out the container.

I shake my head, terrified of what lays inside, though my throat is scratched out raw from all the screaming. Speculations of poison, drugs, and painful minerals bloom in my mind. Surely it is something that will force me into a painful oblivion so horrible that I will never get back out.

"It's just water," he says gently. He even takes a sip himself. Then he holds it up to my lips.

My thirst gets the better of me and I gulp it so quickly that I almost choke.

"Slow down," he suggests.

I put out my hands to take the container, but they tremble so violently, half the water spills onto my lap. I gasp as the liquid slides down my legs. The man patiently holds another container to my lips from which I drink greedily.

When I'm done, he asks, "Annie Cresta?"

It's been so long since anyone has said my name.

"Annie, we're rescuing you."

"Res… rescue." The word burns in my throat. It sounds so foreign. The whole sensation of riding in the hovercraft doesn't seem very plausible. Everyone's voices are distant, as if they're being whispered through a broken speaker at me. People's faces keep blurring, sharpening to fine detail… and then fading to a murky mesh of colors. I've been in the dark so long.

I don't even feel alive. Nothing feels human anymore.

"Yes, you're safe now." The words are just a dull murmur. I can't comprehend their real meaning. Safe? When has anyone ever been safe?

The man continues talking. I try very hard to listen.

"…concentrate on what I'm saying? …District 12… name is Gale…"

My head swims.

"…stationed at District 13. Turns out, they're… have planned out a mission to retrieve… worry about the Capitol…"

The sentences can't fit together in my mind. I shake my head in hopelessness.

"…back on hovercraft… is there with the over citizens of… Finnick will be waiting for you."

Something clicks inside my broken brain. Some key fits into a hole correctly.

The scene in front of me suddenly focuses. I can see the face of the man—I think his name is Gale—in detail. His words don't seem to blur together so much anymore. I can even hear the low thrum of the hovercraft's engine.

"Finnick?" I interrupt. My voice sounds like metal being ground to bits.

"Of course. We rescued him before you."

I shake my head, letting it fall haplessly into my hands.

"What do you mean, no?"

I feel like someone has dropped a lead weight on my chest. There's a familiar lump in my throat that spills acid into my lungs. My mouth feels too dry, though tears are running from my eyes.

 _Liar, liar, pants on fire!_ Dash whoops. _We both know Finnick's de-ad._ Dash makes the last word into two syllables.

"Ahh," I choke.

"What?"

 _That's right, Annie,_ Dash continues in my head. _Better not trust this guy. He seems shady! Don't you remember what they said? About how he died?_

I shake my head again and a tiny "please" escapes my lips. I will myself to push away the unbearable thoughts. Of course, Dash will do no such thing.

 _They drowned him, didn't they? Didn't know it was possible to drown someone from District 4, but I guess when an iron bar is forcing your neck underwater, you don't have much of a choice, do you?_

I tremble from the thought, trying not to convulse with sobs in my seat. What is the man sitting in front of me doing? Doesn't he know the truth? He must. Why is he torturing me?

 _And then they cut him up. They cut his pretty body up and the water turned red. Yuck. Have you ever seen red salt water?_

"Finn…" I whisper, nearly inaudible.

 _And to think, Annie, he went through all of that just for you. You know that, right?_ A sob erupts from my chest, clawing its way out of my throat. Dash continues, crooning, _He wanted to protect you, didn't he? From the Capitol? Didn't want to tell them any secrets about the rebels that might come back and hurt you? How sweet. If not for you, Finnick might still be alive. Too bad they got you in the end, huh?_

A strangled sound erupts from my throat.

"Finnick is alive," Gale says slowly.

 _No, he's not!_ Dash trills loudly, his voice making my temple throb. _Liar, liar, pants on fire!_

I want the words to go away, but they don't. Finnick's name spoken aloud has brought me back to my senses, only to pummel me with despair.

"They… killed him," I say, squeezing my eyes shut.

"No they didn't, Annie. They lied to you."

 _Annie, Annie, Annie. Do you actually believe this guy? You got to be kidding me. I knew you were naïve, but I didn't think you'd ever actually stoop to believe such a dumb lie. You know that dear Finnick is dead. Dead, dead, dead! He's dead! Gone!_

"No, no, _NO!_ STOP IT!" I scream at both of them. I scream and scream. I can't take it anymore. The sense of hope is so much worse than the sense of pain. It doesn't shred my heart; it devours it.

"Calm down, Annie," Gale says. A shadow passes over his face. Like the one in the cell. A grinning guard chuckles. The whites of his eyes turn pitch black.

"Ahhh!" I recoil from him, slamming my head into the window. Once. Twice. The slamming sound drowns out Dash's next words.

 _Oh, look at you. Such a rebel. What are you trying to do? Knock out a few more useless brain cells?_

Slam, slam.

Another man comes over with an expensive looking array of medical supplies. His fingers meticulously poke a needle into my arm before I can jerk away. A dulling sensation crawls through my veins making my muscles go weak. I don't fight it. Perhaps they have finally decided to kill me.

I couldn't be happier. This is a much easier death than I had expected.

Turns out they were just torturing my mind before they killed me; trying to pretend they were my friends, that everything was alright, that Finnick was alive…

Dash is silent, finally. Perhaps the drugs killed him first. Yes, this was a much easier death than I had bargained for.

I think of Finnick and how soon I will get to see him… his beautiful face and heart-stopping eyes. Soon… the barrier of life will be broken and I will get to see him…

Soon.

When I come to, it is only too quickly before I realize that I am not, in fact, dead. I'm lying on soft carpet, a clean sheet draped over me. The last one had gotten wet when I spilled water on it. I'm still cold. I can hear the unintelligible murmur of voices mixed in with the quiet hum of the hovercraft.

I open my eyes and discover that I am stationed at the rear end of the hovercraft, surrounded by a few other bustling people. There are a few stretchers and the lumps on top must be people. I guess I'm lucky not to be on one of those. I try to recount escaping the Capitol, but everything seems like a blur. There were lots of explosions. I covered my ears. I remember a light as the door to my cell crumbled. More explosions. Screams, too. I crouch on the floor.

I remember being carried on a tall person's back through a blurry scene, nearly suffocating from the smoky fumes. I was coughing.

I hear the usual ding that signifies the hovercraft landing. Immediately, the energy in the small space becomes tangible. Everyone is moving about, shouting, surrounding the stretchers. The babble of voices rises to a yell. People start pushing the stretchers towards the front doors of the hovercraft, though we haven't even landed yet. They must be eager to get the passengers off. I watch, bleary-eyed, from the floor, craning my head to see all the action.

The doctor that gave me the sedative leans down to my level and asks how I'm feeling. I don't like him. His shot didn't live up to my expectations of death. I frown, not meeting his eyes, and turn my head toward the doors. I sit up, even though the motion makes me dizzy. I want to run away from his as fast as I can.

"Annie, do you need a stretcher? Or are you able to walk down by yourself?"

That catches my attention.

"No stretcher," I quickly say.

"Alright, let me help you up. We need to get inside District 13 in case the Capitol decides to try and make a visit."

A shadow, thin and flat and black, whooshes through the doctor's neck.

My stomach twists. I feel like I might throw up. I stare at his neck. No blood. The shadow's gone.

"…There's also food and water inside. We'll have to get you cleaned up, though your case is not nearly as severe as the others'…"

Food sounds appealing. It's been a rarity in my life. Besides, I can't really just sit in the hovercraft all day. I take the doctor's hand and he pulls me to my feet. Upon realizing that I'm naked, I wrap the sheet a little tighter around me. I don't know where I'm going, but I have enough decency to cover up.

The hovercraft steps lead down to a broad, black landing pad that extends indefinitely in one direction. Other than that, all I can make out is a collection of low, one-story cinderblock buildings that seem to weigh heavily on the ground. We enter in the closest one and are immediately greeted (or, should I say, assaulted) by a thick group of nurses, busting around me, pulling my matted hair out of my face.

"She's fine," the doctor says, shooing them away. "Go attend to the others."

"Where are we?" I whisper. This looks nothing like the Capitol. We're walking down long hallways of a dull grey.

"District 13," the doctor answers.

I nod when he doesn't offer a further explanation. An elevator leads down several floors and we arrive at a sterile-smelling hallway that I suppose leads to a sort of hospital. I recognize many of the passengers from the plane seated in chairs or on metal tables, as nurses and doctors swarm around them like bees. Gale is leaning against a thick cement column. He winces as a nurse removes something from beneath his shoulder blade.

My eyes scan over everyone, assessing their wounds. I can see the stretchers disappearing around the corner, frantic nurses yelling over the babble of voices. Everyone is moving so fast that it is hard to concentrate on individuals.

A girl with a long braid and eyes the color of Gale's pushes her way through the crowd, tugging a tall man with bronze hair behind her.

I freeze. For a split second, my heart stops beating. Literally. Then it picks up double time, as if intent on running a marathon. My head feels dizzy, but not in the usual, sickening way.

It takes me about five seconds to assemble my thoughts.

First of all, I'm not dead… I think. For the moment, I've made up my mind that if I was death, I'd be having a better time than I am having now.

Secondly, I'm safe… I think. It's something that had never made any sense until this very moment. For now, nothing is going to harm me. I've escaped the clutches of the Capitol. I'm out of the dark room. My eyes are so unaccustomed to the artificial light, I have been blinking like mad since I got off the hovercraft. I don't think these people are going to kill me.

Thirdly… they had lied. The Capitol had lied, as had Dash, and I'm not surprised. Though I know my delusions have often times played tricks on my senses—the screaming in my ears, the dark shadows I see running across my vision—the figure in front of me I could have never conjured up on my own. Nothing in my mind could have satisfied my irrevocable need to see that face; that unmistakable complexion, that unforgettable stature which my mind could have never done justice.

It takes another few seconds to find my voice.

"Finnick." The whisper breaks in the middle. Suddenly, I'm very aware of everything in the room. I can hear every little sound, see every little detail. It doesn't seem humanly possible, and yet, I do. Still, only one thing really matters.

The next sound I make is an unearthly cry that pierces through the air, filling the long hallway with my voice. "Finnick!"

His eyes snap up to my face and I see his beautiful lips forming the incomprehensible syllables of my name.

Maybe I've finally lost it or become truly insane, because when my body acts, it does of its own accord, literally hurling itself across the room without my permission. "Finnick!" I gasp again. The time is takes me to reach him feels like ages. The nurses and wounded around me seem to part like a wake coming of a sail boat, eager to get out of the way. My momentum sends me nearly flying into his chest. He catches me at the last second, but the force of the impact sends us both crashing into the wall and then losing balance and toppling to the floor.

Finnick twists my body so that I land on top of him and not the ground. It still knocks the wind out of me and I'm gasping for air.

Finnick seems speechless and at first I'm afraid I hurt him, perhaps by cracking his head against the wall, but then he launches into an epic battle of securing me to him, kissing every inch of me, gasping my name, and all together, making sure that I am really, truly here.

It's very strange how my senses work. One moment, I can feel every detail in the room; the next, Finnick is the only thing I can hear, see, touch, and taste. The latter, especially, since he seems intent on kissing me so thoroughly, my head spins.

"Oh, God!" he cries between kisses. "Annie, Annie. Oh, God! I thought I'd never see you again. Annie, oh, God!"

I choke out a teary laugh, locking my arms around his neck in an unbreakable grip. "I thought you were dead!"

"I was… until you brought me back. Oh, Annie!" His arms slide up to form a protective cage around me, trapping my arms between us.

I would rather die than break free.

I really want to see his face. It's been so long since I've been deprived of it. I need to make sure every part of him is well. I place my hands on his chest, restraining him as best I can, bringing my lips up and pressing my forehead against his. His piercing green eyes knock the breath out of me even more than the fall. My fingers find his neck, his cheeks, his hair.

I lean forward to press my lips to his bronze hair. He inclines his head forward to kiss my neck, cradling the back of it with one hand.

"I can't believe you're back," he moans happily.

"Neither can I," I reply in ecstasy. Tears slip from my cheeks onto his. Where all of this water comes from, I have no idea. The water on the plane was the first I've drank in days.

"I don't ever want to let go of you again."

"Then don't," I squeak, as he secures me more tightly to him.

Eventually Finnick stops kissing me—we are both in dire need for some oxygen—and just holds me, still splayed out on the hard tiled floor. Lying there, feeling his heart beating so strong and alive beneath my hand, reality begins to dawn on me. I can breathe. I'm not in the dark. I'm pressed against solid ground… not floating. The feeling is unimaginable. I think one of the doctors must have poured a solution of relief over my head. It's all I can feel at the moment, next to my heart beating in tune with Finnick's.

"Annie, you okay?" Finnick's fingers reach up to caress my cheek, brushing the excess tears away.

"Yes…" It takes me a moment to assemble my words. "Because… I'm so happy you're here. Alive."

Finnick chuckles weakly and kisses my forehead.

"I love you, Annie."

"I love you too."

There's a slight, nervous cough from behind—er, above—me.

"Oh, hi, Christa," Finnick greets the nurse standing a few feet away. I have to swivel my head around to see her.

Christa smiles kindly. "Finnick, I think you'd better let Annie up. We want to check her over and get some food and water in her."

Right now, food and water do not seem like a priority. I cling tighter to Finnick.

"We have clothes, too," she adds. I realize, with a flush in my cheeks, that I'm still in the thin sheet from the hovercraft. It's not very concealing. Finnick, sensing my embarrassment, better adjusts the sheet around my slight frame.

He sits up slowly, ignoring my protests.

"Annie, we're going to take care of you now," he says, gently rubbing my back with his hand. "All the nurses here are so nice."

"I don't want the nurses to take me away," I whisper.

"Even if I come?"

That prospect lightens my mood considerably. I let Finnick stand me up, holding me steady with one arm around my waist as we make our way after Christa to a room down the hallway. Unfortunately, the energy wasted in my ordeal on the hovercraft, the long walk to the hospital, and my ecstatic reunion with Finnick has left me with virtually nothing. I slip and my knees buckle after a few steps, too weak with fatigue to continue.

Finnick gently hoists me into his arms and carries me the rest of the way as if I weigh nothing. "It's okay," he says. I lay my head gratefully against the nape of his neck, marveling at the muscles carved into his chest.

He sets me upright on a bed with a metal frame at the back of the room behind a curtain, releasing all but my hand.

Christa documents everything on a clipboard. She takes my blood pressure, listens to my heart, peers into my eyes and ears, checks over my body. I cringe when she presses on certain bruises and cuts. Finnick tenses at my side.

"Well, it looks like your most pressing concerns are dehydration and malnutrition. For the most part, all your vital signs seem fine," Christa says, scribbling a last line on her clipboard. "Finnick?"

"Yes?" Finnick says immediately, nearly bouncing up and down with his eagerness to help.

Christa cracks a tiny smile, as if unused to seeing Finnick in such exuberance. "Do you want to run to the dining hall to get some food? We have water here." She writes a note and hands it to Finnick. "Give this to the people there."

Finnick's face falls, as does mine. The last thing I want is for him to leave. He stands up anyway. My hand clenches around his in defiance.

"Annie, I'll be back before you know it."

I shake my head.

"Annie, I'm not just going to sit here, watching you wither and die."

"Please," I plead.

"You would do the same thing for me, wouldn't you?"

I bite my lip and my hand loosens a little in his. Finnick presses my hand to his lips briefly and then turns and brushes the curtain aside. 'I love you,' he mouths before leaving.

Christa is very nice. She helps me get into some clean undergarments and a hospital gown and then calls in another lady of a higher superiority named Dr. Everdeen. I recognize her name. It was a name I heard frequently at the Capitol.

A dark shape flit across the curtain as it falls back into place. I gasp.

Dr. Everdeen squints at the shadow. Then she shakes her head, quickly recovering. She smiles sweetly and shakes my hand. "It's nice to finally meet you, Annie," she says. "It sounds like you're doing fairly well. With a little food and water, you should be fine in no time."

She checks over my body and asks Christa for some medicine. Christa returns with a jar of pasty yellow ointment, which Dr. Everdeen applies to the cuts and bruises scattered across my body. It doesn't smell particularly nice, but it makes the pain recede so quickly, I gladly put up with it. Finnick comes back with a thick, browned loaf of bread and a thermos of soup, immediately swooping to my side.

"Hi, Finnick," Dr. Everdeen greets him. "I'm just putting some soothing ointment on her bruises. Come over here and I'll show you how." Finnick watches intently as Dr. Everdeen spreads a thin coat of the stuff over a darkening bruise on my forearm. "Once a day will be enough. They'll start fading soon, Annie," she promises.

As soon as Dr. Everdeen and Christa leave the room, I scoot over to make room for Finnick.

"Here, Annie," Finnick says, reaching over to retrieve the food he brought. "Sorry, the soup is from lunch, so it's not particularly hot."

I am not particularly picky, since I haven't eaten in what feels like weeks. I'm not sure how long I was trapped in that tiny, lightless cell, but it feels like an eternity. Hot or cold, the soup is delicious. I don't realize how absolutely famished I am until I'm eating and Finnick has to remind me to slow down. The warm liquid helps revive my throat and I talk between bites to pace myself.

"When did you get here?" I ask Finnick.

He shrugs. "A while ago. Once we broke the force field of the Games, everything turned to chaos in the Capitol and we were able to get away."

"You broke the force field? Escaped the Games?" I ask, stunned.

"Yeah, didn't you hear it in the news? There must have been some explanation for why there was never a victor in the 75th Annual Hunger Games."

I shake my head. "They must have taken me before that."

Finnick's face is suddenly very close; his green eyes bore in mine.

"Annie, tell me what happened," he orders.

I bite my lip, deliberating; then swallow some more soup to prolong the inevitable explanation. The silence seethes.

"Well," I begin. "They told me I had to come with them… to the Capitol. They didn't say why… only that bad things would happen if I didn't come."

I wait for Finnick to respond, but he is silent.

"So I went with them," I continue. "Because I didn't want anything bad to happen to you… They locked my up in a cell." I do my best to skim over the morbid details as I describe the horrid nightmare that had become my life. "It was very dark inside and moldy, so sometimes it was hard to breathe. They brought me food and water in the beginning…

"But after a while, the guards got tired of me asking about you… where you were, if you were safe. They told me… they told me… they had killed you."

My voice breaks on the last word and Finnick's face hardens.

"Because you wouldn't give them any answers. They told me that you weren't being cooperative with the Capitol, even though they were trying to help you. I know now that it was all a lie… but the despair I felt then…" I draw in a ragged breath. "I thought _I_ was dead."

"Shh. It's okay, Annie. It's okay. I'm right here."

"Yes," I gasp. "I'm alright now, though." I watch Finnick's face carefully as he breaks the bread into tiny pieces for me. Unlike the soup, it is still warm and melts in my mouth.

"What's that?" I ask, pointing at the little rope twined around his wrist.

Finnick tugs on the end and the figure eight loosens, falling into his lap. "Just something to keep my hands occupied." I nod, watching him tie a knot. Everyone from District 4 knows to do this, but Finnick does it so quickly, my eyes can barely keep up.

He pulls out the complicated sailor's knot in a single motion and stuffs the rope into his pocket. His hands shift to mine, toying with my fingers. Finnick talks about District 13. How different it sounds from District 4 or the Capitol. I would have never believed it was real until I set foot on it today. After all these years… He talks about the rebellion and the Districts that have refused to surrender to the Capitol. I listen with interest. Everything seems so far away, like I've been living under a rock for the past few weeks… which isn't necessarily untrue.

I listen to Finnick's voice intently; the melodic flow and ebb of his speech. I think about how much I've missed it; how I never thought I would hear it again. Too painful. I don't think I could have fared much longer without him.

It seems like we're only talking for minutes before a nurse comes around, checking up on everyone. She draws back the curtain and frowns.

"You should get to your room, Finnick," she says. "It's lights out soon for the hospital wing."

"Alright." Finnick grins mischievously. "Annie, love, would you like to go to my room?"

The nurse clears her throat. "Miss Cresta is supposed to stay overnight here… at least for the first few nights."

"Then I'm afraid I'm stuck here for a few nights." Finnick brushes his finger across my cheek, not paying her the least bit of attention.

"Finnick," she says pointedly.

"Helaine," he repeats, mocking her patronizing tone. He loses it and breaks a smile. In a softer voice, smooth as the sea, he says, "Please. You know I can't leave her."

Perhaps Finnick gets special privileges since, as he told me, he is officially branded as being mentally unstable. Either that or the nurses have realized they're dealing with the most stubborn man in District 4. Nurse Helaine sighs and sweeps out from beneath the curtain, muttering something pessimistic under her breath. I hear her ducking into the other little compartments, only separated by the thick grey curtain that surrounds my little bed and nightstand.

It's been so long since I've slept on an actual bed. The material feels undeniably soft and I feel myself marveling at how comfortable the pillow feels beneath my head. I'm not sure if I ever really slept in my cell. I remember drifting in and out of consciousness, never really knowing if I was awake or asleep or alive.

And then there were the nightmares or the voices, both equally horrible. They never discriminated against consciousness; they could appear at any moment, racking my frail body with anguish. And the screams…

I force my eyes open. I'm afraid the nightmares will ensue if I give into my exhaustion. Instead I focus on Finnick's face, trying to store every little detail in my mind. This becomes rather difficult, as does the mighty task of staying awake, when the Helaine flicks off the light.

Finnick must feel me tense up next to him because he takes my face gently in his warm hand and whispers, "What's wrong?"

"It's dark." I shake my head. "Just… scared."

"Of what?"

"The nightmares… screaming." My hands automatically reach up to block my ears.

Finnick carefully removes them. Then he kisses me in earnest so thoroughly, it all but evaporates my fear.

"I won't let anything hurt you ever again," he vows. "I'll keep the nightmares away, even if I have to stay awake all night. It would be a pleasure to stay awake all night, as long as I get to be with you."

I tremble against his side.

"Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do," I whisper.

"Then please try and get some sleep. Helaine will try to chase me away if I keep all the patients up talking." He laughs quietly. "I promise I'll always be right here, love."

"Okay," I agree. I snuggle up to Finnick and lay my head on his shoulder in the darkness. Definitely preferable to the pillow. He throws a sheet over us so that I don't get cold.

"Sweet dreams, Annie," he murmurs, kissing my hair.

"Good night," I reply. I'm not sure if I say it aloud. It's hard to distinguish reality from dreams as I drift off into oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dash, get back here! Annie needs her sandals! Make sure the soft sand doesn't burn her feet!"

The nine year old pads back up the front steps and snatches the tiny pair of sandals with an annoyed grimace at his mother. "Soft sand is not even hot yet, Mom. It's barely noon," he mutters under his breath.

"It's going to get hot later," the woman with dark brown hair reprimands. "Be sure she wears her shoes."

"Okay, okay," Dash says, pulling away. "Come on, Annie." He grabs my hand and tows me toward the sand dunes. I do my best to keep up with him, willing my short legs to keep up with his long ones.

"Hurry up, Annie," he says. "I told Finnick we'd be there an hour ago."

"I'm trying," I pant. "The sand is hot."

Dash sighs exasperatedly. He bends down and helps slip the little sandals on my feet, tying the laces meticulously.

"Where are we going?" I wonder. "Are we gonna go swimming?"

"Mom doesn't want you to go in the water by yourself."

"I won't be by myself," I blubber. "You and Finnick's gonna be there."

"Yeah, _me and Finnick_ are going to go in the water. _You_ are going to play in the sand."

"No, I don't wanna play in the sand," I pout.

"Annie, come on." He tugs harder. "Mom said that if you really want to come, you have to play in the sand."

I cross my arms as we walk. Then I let them drop and swing by my sides as we walk. Once we're out of our mother's sight, Dash drops my hand. I walk a little behind him, hopping into his footprints in the sand.

"You have big feet," I observe.

Dash doesn't answer.

"Are we there yet?"

"Not yet."

"Why don't I get to bring a friend to the beach?"

No comment.

It's the last day of the week, so no one is working. Fishing needs to be spaced out, so that we don't deplete any of the marine species. I marvel at how smooth the sand looks when it is not marked with a map of fishermen's footprints. The tide has washed them all away.

"Hey, Fin!" Dash calls out suddenly.

"Hey, where were you?" the boy with the bronze hair asks. "I've been waiting long enough."

"Sorry," Dash apologizes sheepishly. "My mom made me bring my stupid little sister along."

I stick my tongue out at Dash.

Finnick shrugs and laughs. "Let's go! I brought boards."

"Cool," Dash says. He turns briefly to me. "Stay _here_ , Annie."

"Yeah, make us a nice sand castle or something."

Dash and Finnick gallop over to the closest sand dune, on which two foam boards recline. Often, the boards are used as gathering tools. They're big enough to float little boxes of clams and steamers when a person is diving. I'm not old enough to dive yet. Dash has learned how. On work days after school, Dash dives down with his friends for shellfish. They fill the buckets and pile their goodies on the boards. It earns a little extra money for the family. Mom works in the factories, sorting fish, scaling them, and chopping off their heads sometimes. I shudder at the thought of decapitating all the poor fishies.

Dash and Finnick race into the waves. It's a tradition they have whenever they go boarding (pretty much every weekend, since they live only a few houses apart); whoever paddles out past the waves first is the winner. I watch the first waves break over their heads, plastering the bronze and brown hair to their faces. Dash flips his board over his body and skims over the wave. Finnick is stronger and forces the board under, literally diving beneath it.

I kick around the sand at my feet, enjoying the little patterns my feet make in it. The wet sand is cooler under my feet. I plop down on my bottom and dig my hands into the sand.

Sand crabs. I grin, watching the tiny creatures scramble over my palm, desperate to bury themselves back in the sand. I decide to make them a place to live by scooping up handfuls of sand and slapping them one upon another to make miniature towers. I add a high wall facing the ocean so that the buffeting waves will never reach my baby sand crabs. Then I add some pretty magenta kelp for decoration.

I dump handfuls of sand crabs on their new home.

It's frustrating because every time I throw more crabs on my hard work, they disappear into the sand in a matter of seconds. I tell myself that they just want some time alone to rest.

Next, I walk down the little strip of beach—Dash has specifically instructed me to stay in between the two nearest sand dunes—and look for shells with which I can flourish the castle. I can always find nice shells at the beach. Mommy is amazing with crafts. She paints shells, stiches them into clothing, knots them together. She can turn any old sand-caked shell into a treasure of the sea. Sometimes people around District 4 will buy them; they are especially popular for Hunger Games, holidays, and weddings.

I pull the little wadded-up mesh net from my pocket and start looking for the ones with the most vibrant colors. Pink, violet, light teal, gold. The colors the ocean can produce are incredible. I find several washed up sand dollars and add them to the loot as well.

Some of the clam shells have little holes at the top from where an animal drilled into it to suck out the delicious morsels inside. I string a piece of eel grass through the holes and tie the necklace around my own neck, sauntering around the beach, imagining what it would be like to be one of those rich women at the Capitol.

If I lived at the Capitol, I would be a mermaid princess, refusing to wear any ugly Capitol fashions. In fact, I would start my own fashion trend, wearing beautiful chains of pearls and abalone head dresses.

Eventually, my grand delusions wear thin and my necklace is discarded into my shell bag.

I slump to the hot sand, exhausted.

It's so… hot.

I glare at the sun, beaming down brilliantly on the glistening waves as Finnick slices through the water on his board. I cup my hands in little circles and hold them to my eyes so I can watch my brother and his friend through binoculars.

It is dull watching them board. I try unsuccessfully to sit still, but the hot sand burns and scratches my legs. I get up, take a few steps, and sit back down. Still hot.

I try it again. Still hot.

Finally, I tip-toe to the water's edge and plop down in a few shallow inches of water.

Perfection. The cool ripples of water flood over my legs, washing away the dry, itchy sand. I sigh in relief. I toss little balls of mud into the sea, watching the sun glint off the wet sand.

With a whoop in the distance, Dash catches a wave, flying through the air on his board. At the last second, he launches off the nose and does a summer sault into the water.

That looks so much fun.

I stand up. Maybe they will finally teach me. I'm five years old, after all. I know how to swim. I skip through the waves, jumping over the small ones, laughing when the bigger ones send a misty spray across my face.

"Dash!" I yell. "I wanna try! I wanna try!"

Soon, I'm out so far, I can't jump over the waves anymore and I contend myself to just wading out, turning my face to the shore so that the water from the waves won't get in my eyes. They're not that far out. I will be there soon.

Suddenly, an enormous set begins to roll in. Waves usually come in pairs of two. The first one towers over my head and I take a big breath and duck under it, making sure to hold my breath like I learned. I'm fine. In fact, I'm a bit proud of myself for handling this so well.

But, when I come up, rubbing the salt water out of my eyes, another hits me straight in the face, pummeling me back into the water. Ouch. This time, I don't have time to take a deep breath. I come up spurting water and gagging a little on the salt.

I think I'll go back to the shore.

I start making my way back, pushing against the water that doesn't want me to move forward. A few steps in and my foot hits a hole. The ocean is not even; there are plenty of holes and ditches. One moment, I'm standing comfortably on a sand bank; the next, I'm in a ditch so deep, my feet can't touch the bottom. I kick fruitlessly, trying to hold my head above the water. I'm fine. I know staying calm saves plenty of people from drowning.

It's easy to stay calm until another wave douses me, shoving me beneath the surface.

Again.

And again.

It's rather hard to take big breaths between the waves. Every time I lift my head, another one breaks and I find myself swallowing much too much water and struggling to keep my head up.

"Dash!" I gasp. "Can you help—"

The rest of my sentence is drowned out by a swell collapsing over my head in a flurry of white bubbles. It spins me around under water, as I cough and spit the rest of my air out. Water floods in my mouth and my nose.

"Dash! Dash!" I cry.

I'm starting to panic, flailing around in the water which, if anything, seems to be pulling me farther back from the shore. Why are the waves so big suddenly? I wish they were smaller. I'm trying to find the bottom, my legs hammering up and down, but there's no such luck. My arms are so tired.

Another wave. Splash. Gag. Cough. Swallow. It's like a cycle.

"HELP!" I scream, truly frozen with terror. I want the water to stop so bad. "DASH!"

"Annie! I'm com—"

My head disappears under the water and the world transforms into a dreamy tessellation of greens and blues. I shake my head. I can feel the cold water finding its way into my ears. My throat burns from no air.

I count the seconds it will take for Dash to get here.

One. Two…

No air, no air.

Five. Six. Seven.

Struggling. No air.

Nine. Ten. Ele—

Something hard jerks my arm up and my head breaks through the surface. Strong arms pull me up, heaving me over the board, where I vomit up about a gallon of salt water.

My sobs are a mixture of coughing, crying, and gasping.

"It's okay, Annie. It's okay."

"Dash?" Cough.

"Dash is coming. He ran to go get your mom."

I peer up through the sunlight at Finnick's dripping face.

My bottom lip trembles. "I want Dash."

"I'm going to tow you in. Hold on to the board. It's alright, I won't let you go."

I strap my fingers tightly to the board, still half choking on water, and Finnick begins to paddle away. "We have to swim around the riptide," he explains.

I lay my head against the board. The hardest part by far is getting in. The first wave that splashes over the board sends terror through my spine. Finnick blocks most of the wave with his body, but it doesn't stop the water from dousing the back of my head. I just squeeze my eyes shut and hang on fast.

As another wave laps over us, I hear my mommy shrieking, "Annie, Annie! Oh, God! Annie, are you alright?"

She comes splashing through the knee deep water, fully clothed, until she reaches us. She grabs me in her arms, forcing my fingers out of the death grip I have on the board. I hold onto her neck. Dash is a few steps behind her, looking worried and slightly guilty.

"Annie!" Mommy says. "Don't ever go in the water without me! Don't you know what a riptide is?"

"It pulls you out deeper," I answer in a tiny voice.

"That's right. You need an adult there to make sure you're okay. Oh, Annie," she sobs, crushing my face to her chest. She turns to Finnick. "Thank you so much, Finnick. Why don't you come inside with us? I have some soup."

We all trudge out of the water. I still cling to my mom.

"Dash, I'll speak to you later."

I watch Dash and Finnick trail wearily behind. Dash kicks the sand disgruntledly. Finnick smiles kindly at me and I bury my head in Mommy's shoulder. I listen to Mommy lecturing Dash about how he needs to keep a better eye on me when we go to the beach; how it was very irresponsible of him to not keep watch.

The rest of the day turns out to be real good in my opinion. Mommy is really happy that I am okay. She invites Finnick and his mother to stay for dinner. The Odairs only live a few houses away from us. I know because our houses look almost identical, except for the gardens. Dash almost went home to the wrong house once. I giggled at him.

Daddy and Uncle Tuss come home when the sun has set, along with Auntie Acora. Mommy was supposed to go to work, but she was feeling sick, so she reserved herself to staying home and entertaining me. Daddy brings some fish for dinner and a rare delicacy of lobster. Along with their usual rations of food, the men in District 4 are allowed to divvy amongst themselves the fish that the Capitol importers will reject: fish that are oddly shaped or slightly torn from the huge nets they use while fishing.

We all enjoy the delicious dinner—the adults at the table, the children sitting on the floor—of fish, lettuce soup, a piece of bread, and a morsel of lobster. It is a great feast.

My cousin Marina teaches me to play a game called Sailor's Tempest with little pebbles and shells as we lay by the fireplace. Dash, after losing his morose frown, joins Finnick in drawing pictures of new boards. He boldly claims that he will one day engineer the fastest, most water-dynamic board in all of District 4… whatever that means.

When he is done eating, Daddy hoists me up onto his lap.

"Heard someone tried to take a swim today," he says. "Was my little merchild trying to see the other merchildren?"

I laugh.

"Da-ad," Dash says, making his name into two syllables. "There are no such things as merchildren!"

"How do you know?" Daddy grins, picking me up and spinning me around in a circle.

"Weee!" I cry.

"This is how you would swim in you were a merchild," Daddy says. He swings me through the air in graceful, little jolts.

"No, Daddy!" I laugh. "Merchildren don't live in the air. They live in the water!"

"Oh, of course they do!" Daddy bumps his palm against his forehead. "How could I have forgotten?"

"Yeah!" Marina interjects. "Annie and I saw a real one at the docks! Right, Annie?"

"Right!" I reply, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet. "It was a _real_ merchild!"

"Oh, yeah?" Dash says. "What did it look like?"

"It had…" I struggle to remember. "Pink hair!"

"Pink hair?" Finnick snickers.

"Mm hm." Marina represses a smile. "And a long tail with a great big fin at the end! What color were the scales again, Annie?"

"Pink!"

"A merchild with pink hair and pink scales?" Dash guffaws, which warrants a reproachful look from Mommy.

"Sounds like she's from the Capitol," Finnick observes. "Like one of those crazy ladies on the TV."

"Totally. Those ladies are crazy," says Marina.

"Cray-zeeeeee!" I repeat gleefully.

Marina laughs. "If I were merchild, I would want to have a blue tail and I would want to swim super fast!"

"Me too!" Finnick exclaims.

"Me too!" Uncle Tuss echoes in a funny high voice, and all the adults laugh.

"I wouldn't be a merchild," says Dash. "I'd be a SHARK!"

He pretends to take a bite out of Marina's head and she flees like a bird around the room as he chases her. We all run around like crazy, tagging one another and making chomping sounds like sharks eating fish. I don't know if sharks really make that noise. I've never seen a shark before. Dash says that before I was born, the open-water fishermen caught a great-white in one of their nets and brought it ashore for everyone to see. I wish I could have seen it.

I'm exhausted before our company even leaves. Mommy tells Daddy to take me upstairs while she cleans up the dishes with Auntie Acora. Daddy sits on the edge of my bed while I kick the blankets restlessly.

"You're gonna tell me a story, right?" I say.

"What?" He acts surprised. "I thought I was coming up here for you to tuck me in."

"No, Daddy!" I laugh.

"Well, alright. Shall we make one up?"

"Yeah!"

He thinks for a moment. "There was once an underwater princess named…"

"Bubbles!"

"Bubbles," he echoes with a laugh. "Yes, Princess Bubbles who could speak the language of any sea creature. Fish, hermit crabs, jellyfish…"

"Dolphins?"

"Yes, especially dolphins!" He makes a high pitched clicking noise like that of a dolphin. "In fact, Princess Bubbles would only travel by a magnificent chariot pulled by dolphins."

"I would like that," I say.

I wake briefly from my sleep. Someone is talking loudly. It takes me a moment to realize that it's not coming from the rest of the hospital; it's my mother, chattering loudly to Dash.

 _Yeah, a lot of help you were, Dash._ My mother's voice has morphed into a new tone that echoes with mockery.

 _Wasn't my fault! I_ told _Annie not to go into the water. But did she listen? Noooooooo._

 _She could have died, boy!_ another voice yells. It sounds like Marina.

 _Annie doesn't blame me, do you Annie?_ Dash asks.

"No," I answer.

Beside me, Finnick stirs but he is too deeply asleep to fully wake up.

 _Besides, Annie didn't happen to be around when the Capitol came and took away our family! Why should it matter if I wasn't around when she almost drowned?_

I try to fade the voices, out to go back to the sweet time on the beach with my little sand crab castle. Eventually, the image of Mom swirls and Marina's voice is gone. I sigh in contentment, realizing I'm on the beach again.

The sand is cool like the evening air. The sun has disappeared over the horizon, but the moon has yet to come. The only thing that warms my chilling skin is the bonfire, Dash has made. We're all sitting around the little fire, our faces illuminated by the light.

Marina and Rime are laughing and hugging. Dash and Tuss are playing an odd game. Holley's singing one of her songs. I'm sitting calmly, toasting a tiny shrimp that I caught. I watch it turn a crimson color, before blackening at the tips. I carefully take it out of the fire. "Do you want it Holley?" I ask my friend.

She nods, snatches it off the stick and pops it in her mouth. "Thanks, Annie!" she says, smiling.

Rime, nods toward me. "Do I get one, Annie?" he asks.

I shrug. "Sure, but you have to catch it," I reply.

Rime frowns playfully and Marina kisses him. He whispers something into Marina's ear and she laughs.

I wish I had someone like that. To whisper something sweet like that into my ear, kiss me when I'm feeling sad. Tuss notices me and grins at me.

"What's wrong?" he asks me, but then it morphs into another voice.

 _Quit feeling bad for yourself, Annie girl. You always were saying 'poor me!' But poor_ me! _I was murdered, Annie girl! I had a daughter; a wife; a family; a life!_

This time I can't escape back to the sweet dream. The fire around which we're gathered expands until its ten… twenty… fifty feet high. The fishing dock is on fire. The boats lap listlessly against the dock, their ropes catching fire, the flames mirrored in the ripples of water.

The darkness of the night is blurred with the violent red smoke billowing into the night air.

I can't control myself. I scream. I can hear shouting voices, frantic with fright and worry. "Marina? Marina? Marina?! MARINA!" Rime is shouting, running around the perimeter of the tiny cottage, waving wildly through the smoke, as peacekeepers swarm the scene. He brandishes a bat, hurling it through the window. Breaking glass spews everywhere. "I'm coming!" Rime tears through the broken window.

Marina's answering scream mingles with my own.

I'm twelve years old. I stand in the street alone. I watch the house where I grew up burn.

An explosion rocks the house. The window through which Rime jumped peels away from the rest of the house as shards of cement, glass, debris, and more flames rain down. The force of it knocks me off my feet and I'm thrown across the street, skidding to a halt on my side.

I feel glass embedded in my arm, but that's not the reason I'm crying.

"DASH!" I sob. "MARINA! DAD!"

I'm picking myself up. Starting toward the fire. Stumbling on cracked slabs of pavement. "UNCLE TUSS!" Falling down. "RIME!" Another explosion. A piece of brick bounces off my head and I scream. "DASH!"

Someone grabs me roughly by the shoulder and hoists me up so hard I think my arm might have disconnected. "Nooo," I sob.

The figure wheels me around and suddenly I am face to face with the blurred mask of a Peacekeeper.

"Help!" I gasp. "The house! My—my family's inside! Please!"

I see the eyes behind the white mask narrow into slits.

"Who are you?" the gruff voice demands.

"Help them!" I cry. "Please!"

"I SAID WHO ARE YOU?!" he yells in my face.

I start to cry. I can't help it. Marina's screams are echoing in my head. Part of me knows that it's too late, that the enormity of those explosions was surely too much, that the roof of the house has already collapsed in on itself, and the rest of me sinks with despair. The Peacekeeper is holding me up by my shoulder, and when my knees buckle, my arm screams.

He shakes me roughly. "ANSWER ME!"

"Annie!" I manage breathlessly. "A-Annie Cresta! Please! You're hurting me!"

"Damn," he mutters and drops me.

I fall to the floor on top of more glass.

The Peacekeeper speaks into the static of a talking device. "Sir, we've got the wrong house. It's another girl's family." There is cursing on the other end. "I know, sir. I know. Her name's Annie Cresta." I can faintly make out more jibberish over the static of the talking device. "Maybe she's his neighbor. I'll find out. Hang on a minute."

He turns toward me. There is no more screaming in the house. Everything is silent, except for the sound of the flames licking the flimsy infrastructure of what once was a house. My house. Where my cousin Marina was staying with her boyfriend Rime and my uncle Tuss. Where my father was lounging next to the fire. Where Dash was almost done carving out a new board.

"No," I murmur.

"Listen, girl!" the Peacekeeper snarls.

"You didn't help them," I moan. I can hardly see his face. A layer of tears obscures my vision.

"You know anyone around here named Odair?"

"YOU DIDN'T HELP THEM!" I yell. "YOU DIDN'T HELP THEM! YOU DIDN'T HELP THEM! YOU DID NOTHING!" I spit at him.

The Peacekeeper shoves me with the force of a hovercraft back into the street. The structure of the house finally collapses as my head hits the pavement.

"You didn't help them… You could have saved them… You could have…"

"I'm sorry, love."

"You could have… You could have…"

"I know. It's alright now."

I grab the sides of my head and scream.

"Shhhh, don't do that." My hands are gently removed. My eyes flash open.

Finnick is eyeing me cautiously, his brilliant sea-green eyes, nearly glowing in the darkness. I realize with a jolt I must have kept him up all night long in my sleep. "I'm sorry," I mutter, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

"Don't be," he murmurs, caressing my hair.

He holds me tightly to him, as he did yesterday, and we stay like that.

"What happened?" he whispers after a few minutes pass.

"The fire." I wipe my eyes. "Marina and Dash and my dad."

Finnick nods. He's very familiar by now with my reoccurring nightmares.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

"You don't have to say that every time. It wasn't really you're fault."

"But it was," he protests. "If I hadn't been so uncooperative… If I just did what they told me… None of this would have happened."

"You were scared," I said.

"I was fifteen. I had already survived the Hunger Games! What's a little human trafficking compared to murdering other children?"

"You killed other people in the Games. But what Snow was making you do… it was killing you inside. I don't blame you for trying to refuse."

He frowns in the darkness.

"If I hadn't refused, though," he says slowly. "They would have never come like that to District 4."

"It's not your fault," I say again. "Our houses look too similar."

Finnick doesn't answer. He is brushing his forefinger very slowly across my cheek, from my temple to the curve of my jaw, smoothing my hair back across the pillow, cupping the back of my neck in one hand.

I close my eyes, savoring the moment, enjoying the warmth of his skin in contrast to the clamminess of mine.

"Annie, you're so beautiful," he murmurs suddenly.

I crack my eyes open disbelievingly.

"You are," he says again, leaning down to kiss me. I try to bury myself in the thin quilt in mock embarrassment. He ducks his head under playfully. "Don't believe me?"

"Of course not," I laugh. He laughs quietly too. "I'm guessing all my hopes are dashed of you going back to sleep."

"You're right."

"Do you want to go get some food?"

"I'm starving."

Finnick leads me down the twist of concrete passages known as District Thirteen. I don't think I'll ever be able to find my way down here alone, but I try to at least memorize the way to the cafeteria. It's lighter outside and, though it's still early, soldiers are already milling about the hallways.

The cafeteria is almost empty and they are just putting out the food. Finnick nods to the pot of porridge and holds out his medical bracelet, identical to mine. The worker in a grey smock checks in and portions out what appears to be a room temperature pile of glop. I receive the same delicacy. I try to nonchalantly brush my hand over the pot to see if it's still warm. It's not.

Finnick and I sit at an empty table in one of the corners of the cafeteria. I spoon a little bit of the porridge into my mouth. Luckily it's not as inedible as it looks. Besides, after having nothing but moldy drips of water, it tastes like heaven.

Finnick takes a bite of his and I laugh, seeing a disgusted reaction play across his face. He pressed his bowl then mine, then switches our bowls. "What?" I demand.

"Mine was warmer," he admits.

I steal my bowl back and wolf it down before he can say anything. I give him a mischievous smile as he begins to protest a second too late. He eats his meal then we leave, his fingers linked with mine.

"So…" Finnick begins.

"So…" I repeat happily.

"Do you want to see District 13?"

"Oh. Sure."

"It's not terribly exciting… not like home. But it's kind of cool. I mean, I didn't even know it existed until after the Hunger Games."

"I would love to see it," I say warmly.

"Okay, then." Finnick exchanges his arm to loop it around my waist. "Over to your right, miss…" He takes on a funny Capitol accent. Normally, that would freak me out. After all, those are the only accents I heard for a considerably darker time period of my life. Instead, the sound of it is so ridiculous mingled with Finnick's suppressed laughter that I find myself smiling. "…Is the Dining Hall," he finishes.

"What?" I gasp in mock surprise. "I would have never guessed… especially since we just _dined_ in that _hall_."

We reach a metal elevator shaft at the end of the hallway. It looks so drab compared to the fancy elevators that flash beams of multicolored lights in the Capitol. Finnick presses the button on the side. It blinks red.

Finnick sighs exasperatedly and sticks his arm in a slot that I hadn't noticed.

 _Beep._

Finnick retracts his arm. Several thin lines of ink are printed across it.

"It's just an ink schedule," he says in response to my unasked question.

The elevator doors open.

"After you, my lady," Finnick says, still acting all proper, waving me in with one hand.

I walk in, grabbing his wrist with both hands and hauling him in with me. He gladly obliges. The doors slide shut with a click.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Wherever you want," Finnick says. "Pick a button."

It says we're on floor six. I pick twelve, which turns out to take us even deeper into the ground. I can feel my stomach dropping as we plummet downwards. We stop early at level eleven and a young man gets in. He sees me and Finnick and stops in his tracks, one hand preventing the elevator doors from closing.

"Finnick, what are you doing?" he demands. It seems like everyone knows Finnick on a first name basis. What did I expect? He is a Hunger Games celebrity, after all.

"Riding in an elevator, Boggs!" he says brightly. "What are you doing?"

The man is a bit taken back by Finnick's sunny-side-up attitude.

His face mollifies the tiniest bit. "Annie Cresta has nurse's orders to stay in bed," he says. "I _did_ help rescue her."

"Oh, of course," I quickly mutter. "Thank you."

Finnick is wearing his pouting face.

"She needs medical attention, Odair!" Boggs says impatiently. "You want your girlfriend to get better or not?"

"Really, I'm fine," I protest quietly.

"No, it's okay, Annie. I'll take you back. The little bore that Boggs is," he tisks under his breath.

"I heard that," the man says. He sighs. "Take this elevator straight back up to the Hospital Wing."


	3. Chapter 3

Back in the Hospital Wing, Finnick takes more of the putrid smelling ointment and, under the direction of Dr. Christa, applies a coat of it to my bruises. They are finally starting to fade away.

"How are you feeling, Annie?" Christa asks.

"Better," I say sincerely.

"Good," she says, taking my temperature. "You feel normal. A few more nights in here and then we'll get you your own room."

"She can stay in mine," Finnick offers immediately.

"Um," Christa says.

"That'll be perfect," I finish with a smile.

Finnick flashes a side grin back.

Christa rolls her eyes. "Can I get you anything before I leave, Annie?"

"Some water would be nice."

"Sure." She pauses. "I do want to ask, though. This morning, several patients said they heard screaming from this bedside. Did anything happen?"

"I—" My mouth suddenly feels dry. How to explain without her thinking I'm completely off my rocker? "I—"

"Was having a bad dream," Finnick finishes smoothly. "No worse than Katniss's. She just got back from the Capitol. You can't blame her."

"I see," Christa nods. "I'll be right back with a water."

The curtain dances back into place as she leaves. Finnick takes another glob of paste and gingerly massages it into my shoulder blade.

"During the Games we had to put this green stuff on our scabs. It smelled way worse than this, not to mention it made us look like giant green sea hairs."

He chuckles and I crack a smile.

"Remember when Dash fell asleep on the beach and you helped me cover him with mud? Well, I guess I got a taste of my own medicine."

"I remember that. He was so mad!"

"He could barely stand up, there was so much on him!"

"When he got home, he said it took hours to get sand out of… well, you know where."

Finnick and I can't help ourselves. We both crack up.

We're still laughing when Dr. Christa ducks in to give me a glass of water. I take it and unlike on the hovercraft, my hands don't shake.

I drink slowly until the water is gone. I trace my finger around the edge of the glass.

Suddenly a shadow dives out of the cup. A scream pierces my ears.

I press my cheek against the moist stone. The water is gone.

My throat is dry and sticky. I hold my tongue to the crack in the wall. If I am lucky, I can usually catch a few mouthfuls of water dripping out.

But there is nothing now.

"No." I slump to the floor, feeling along the cervices in the wall for anything wet, to no avail. I force myself up on the cot that juts out of the wall, and reach up to the ceiling, desperate to find anymore dripping cracks. The higher I am on my tiptoes, the more the dank odor of mold dominates my senses. I am consumed by a wild coughing fit; it wracks my chest, forcing me off the cot and onto the cold stone floor.

"No." I force myself to inhale tiny sips of air at a time, or risk asphyxiation. Time passes; whether seconds or hours, I cannot be sure.

I wait in the dark. Silent. Thirsty. Dying.

Then I hear footsteps passing outside my cell. The dim light beneath the door is fractured as a pair of boots passes by.

"Please," I say, though my voice is almost inaudible because it is so hoarse. I crawl over to the door and slap my hand against it with as much force as I can muster. "Please, I need some water."

"Bring her here," a gruff voice orders. For a minute, my heart leaps, because going anywhere besides this hell would be salvation. But the command is not directed toward me.

Instead, I hear scuffling outside the door and a woman protesting in outrage. There is a sickening crack as something hard makes contact with human flesh, followed by an anguished cry that sends my hands to my ears.

"Hurry up! We haven't got all day!"

"Why don't you just kill me now? You sick, psycho—"

Another wham. Another scream. It barely sounds human.

I back away from the door, terrified.

The footsteps near my door. A man grunts, as if dragging something heavy.

I don't need to ask what.

I wait in silence for a long time, pressed up against the back wall, willing the stones of the wall to swallow me up.

The screaming starts later.

It's mingled with the sound of glass breaking. Confused, I blink and shapes emerge from the darkness.

"Oops, careful!" Finnick crouches on the ground and starts scooping up the fragments of glass fell from my hand.

"I'm so sorry," I mutter, pushing myself off the hospital bed so that I can help him.

"It's okay. I'm almost done." He restrains my efforts with one hand and tosses the pieces of glass into a waste bin with the other. "It was an accident, right?"

"An accident," I repeat.

"Did it just slip from your hands?"

"It—it must have."

Finnick sweeps the rest of the glass under the bed with his foot. "See?" He takes my face in his hand. "No big deal."

"Do you think I'm crazy?" I burst out.

Finnick is quiet for a moment, which is good. If he was going to lie to me, he would have done is quickly.

I say blatantly, "Everyone thinks so."

"I think everyone is a little crazy," he interrupts me. "What's to distinguish one type of crazy from another?"

"But I'm—I mean—" I falter. "Other people don't hear voices. Or see dead people. They don't have to relive bad memories each night. They don't have to hear their loved ones scream."

I stare down at the place where my glass of water hit the floor. It's still wet. My cheeks feel hot.

"What's wrong with me, Finnick?"

He shakes his head earnestly. "Nothing's wrong with you, darling. Trust me… You're perfect."

"But I'm not," I say in a shaky voice. "I'm—I'm crazy or something. That's what everybody says!"

"Everybody's wrong!"

"Fin… You don't have to pretend."

"Hey, hey, hey." He takes my hands away from my ears and cups them safely in his own. "You can't listen to them."

"Who?" I ask miserably. "The voices in my head or everyone else?"

"Neither. Both! I mean, Annie, love, it doesn't matter what everyone else is saying. We've all been through a lot. Who can you think of who is actually _normal_?"

I shrug.

"Exactly. This guy, Haymitch? You remember him? He tries to drink himself into oblivion every week. Is that normal? That woman, Wiress, who played in the last Games? Ahh, little Nuts. She could barely get out a few comprehensible words. I certainly never understood her… But then again, I was never the sharpest knife in the drawer."

"Huh." The sides of my mouth perk up a little at his humor. "Don't say that."

"And Johanna? Well, you know her… she's always been a little wacky since the Games. Has no decency whatsoever."

I smile weakly. "You told me that story of when she totally stripped once before the Games."

"Oh, God. My hands weren't big enough shields."

"Haha, oh, Johanna."

"And Mags. She had a stroke after her time in the Games. No one understood her. That's definitely not normal."

"Mags," I repeat sadly. "I heard about what happened to her."

"She was a good woman," Finnick says softly.

"I'm sorry, Fin," I gently kiss him. He scoots his chair closer to my bedside and rests his head on my chest. I thread my fingers through his bronze hair.

"I'm sorry, too. But I think… if she hadn't done what she did… I wouldn't be here right now with you. She died in honor and I am so grateful to her." His beautiful eyes sparkle with tears, which he doesn't care to wipe away. I brush my hand over his cheek and he closes his eyes.

"I'm grateful as well." I kiss his forehead.

Finnick sighs, tilting his head so that it is pressed to my neck. I close my eyes too, storing this moment in my mind.

"And you, Finnick?" I say. "What's your nervous condition?"

"Me? I'm completely crazy," he chuckles. "Everyone knows it."

"Yeah, right."

"Mm, completely crazy for you."

"Good save."

"I'm serious, Annie!"

"Sure."

"See this bracelet?" He holds up his arm. "It's doctor-code for, 'Caution: This man is seriously unstable. Speak to at your own risk.'"

I laugh. "Or what?"

"Spontaneous combustion." He grins. "Or death by horrible singing."

"Oh no!" I giggle. I've heard Finnick pretend to sing before. I can testify that I've heard whales make more appealing sounds.

" _The waves, they toss us to and fro. Oh, my dear, I wish we could go—_ "

He's singing an old sailor's song in the most ridiculous voice you could image coming out of a full-grown man.

"Stop, Finnick! Shh!" I try to shove my hand over his mouth, but he playfully grabs my wrist and continues on belting.

" _Across the sea, away from heeeeeeeere_!"

"Fin—Finnick!"

We end up finishing the last line together, both breathless because we're laughing too hard. " _To paradise we'll sail, my dear!_ "

A passing nurse gives us a quizzical look, but doesn't say anything. I suppose horrible singing is better than some of the other patients she has to deal with.

Finnick releases my wrists, taking my hands instead and kissing them earnestly. "You still think you're the craziest one here?" he asks slyly.

"Hm, perhaps not," I smirk.

He opens his mouth, as if threatening to sing again and I quickly interject, "Don't worry, you proved you're point."

Finnick smiles triumphantly. "So don't worry, love," he murmurs, turning suddenly irresistibly sweet. "No one on earth is completely sane. We all deal with our problems differently. So what, if you hear voices and have bad dreams? You're perfect in my mind. You always have been."

"I love you, Finnick."

"I love you, too."

We lay there for a few minutes. Neither of us feels the need to break the silence. It is not an uncomfortable silence. I watch Finnick's head rise and fall with me breathing.

A young blonde nurse comes around, serving everyone sandwiches. My stomach growls at such a wonderful sight.

"Thanks, Prim," he says, taking two from her.

"You're welcome, Finnick," she replies. She's much younger than the other nurses, probably not more than fourteen.

"Are you Annie?" she asks.

"How did you know?" I sit up a little straighter on the metal bed.

The girl smiles diffidently. "Finnick Odair doesn't look at just anyone like that. I figured."

I blush. "Yes, I'm Annie."

"It's nice to finally meet you, Annie," she says, extending a hand, which I take gingerly. "I'm Prim."

"She's Katniss's sister," Finnick tells me.

"It's nice to meet you, too."

Prim grins.

I must look confused because she explains, "I've just… I've never seen Finnick look so happy."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I help care for him and the other patients with—" She stops and bites her lip.

"With mental problems!" Finnick says as if it's the most wonderful thing in the world.

Prim smirks. She looks nothing like the pictures I've seen of her sister, the dark and brooding figure so often portrayed on television.

"Anyway, enjoy." She hands us two napkins and containers of fresh water, thankfully made of plastic instead of glass.


	4. Chapter 4

They'll always be there singing songs in my head.

Or screaming.

Screaming's bad.

Much worse than singing.

I much prefer when they sing in my head. Or recite poetry. I'm even alright when they just stay there, talking to each other, trying to talk to me. Talking doesn't bother me.

Sometimes they talk of nice things and they're quite interesting to listen to when the real world gets too painful or too boring or too scary.

They have names, just like old friends. I'm pretty good at keeping track of their names and whose voice belongs to whom. They're my constant companions. My family. My friends. Marina. Dash. Thursday. Holley. Tuss. Rime.

Those are my most frequent visitors. They come the fastest; stay the longest. Others come around time to time. It's like greeting an old pal when I haven't heard someone in a while.

Currently, I'm on my back on the cold, grey sheets, listening to Dash and Holley bicker. Holley was always a sweet girl. She liked to sing what some people called, "Church riddles." I never knew what that meant. It must have been bad. Because the Peacekeepers wiped the "Church riddles" right out of Holley. I never saw her again.

Yet I hear her almost every day. She likes to sing, if only in my dreams.

 _Holley, shut up. I'm tired of hearing the same stupid song over and over!_

 _I like it,_ Holley persists. _It's much prettier than anything_ you _sing._

 _No, it's not. Holley, why are you such a baby all the time?_

I expect Holley to start crying, but she's a strong little voice. She keeps singing.

 _Ugh!_ Dash groans. _Annie, tell her to be quiet. I can't even hear myself think!_

I want to protest that I can _never_ hear myself think over their voices, but instead I just calmly say, "I think her song is nice." I don't want to fuel the fire anymore.

 _No, it's not!_ Dash says. Angry now. Holley keeps singing. _Annie, whose side are you on?_

I shake my head. "Nobody's side."

 _STOP IT, Holley!_

 _NO!_

 _STOP IT, DO YOU HEAR ME?_

 _I hear you, and I'm not stopping. AHHHH!_

 _ARGGHHH!_

It's a battle between voices. Each getting louder, as they try ruthlessly to outdo one another. Louder and louder. Never ceasing. Their voices are twisting through one another like snakes, rising in a torrent out sound.

"Stop it, please!" I cry. My head is hurting. It throbs with every vibration from Dash or Holley's mouth. Dash-Holley-Dash-Holley-Dash-Holley-on-and-on. "You're hurting me, Dash!" I gasp. It is seriously painful now. I wonder if my ears are bleeding.

Someone grabs my wrists and I utter an incomprehensible scream.

"Dash, let go!" I shriek and thrash about. It's no use. His grasp is like iron.

A voice is speaking in my ear, but it is much closer. And calm. That's what forces me to listen. None of the voices in my head are ever calm.

"Annie, Annie, listen to me," it is saying. "Annie, are you listening?"

I want to. I really do, but all the screaming is drowning out the words. It doesn't sound like Dash and Holley are bickering anymore. It sounds like they're being murdered. I shake my head and scream again.

The manacles around my wrists tighten.

"Annie, it's me," the voice persists. "I'm going to take care of you now. You've got to relax your fingers."

My fingers? I do and the pain in my ears diminishes. The screams are going away, too.

"Good. Now try opening your eyes."

I do that too, but the darkness is disorienting. I'm breathing heavily because there is something heavy holding down my chest. For a moment, I struggle, momentarily blinded by panic.

"Shh, it's okay. It's just me."

"Fin?" I whisper.

"I'm here." One of the shackles on my wrists loosens and rearranges my hand over his face. My hands slide up to his cheeks, tangling through his hair. I can barely see in the dark, but I think he's smiling. He folds one of his hands over mine.

"I can't see. It's too dark."

I feel the weight shift off my chest and the light flicks on a few seconds later. There he is, across the room, one finger poised on the switch.

My living miracle. Finnick Odair.

I slide off the bed to him. "I thought you were never going to let me go," I joke half-heartedly.

"I couldn't reach the light." He smiles weakly. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Um, nightmare," I fib.

Finnick shakes his head in disapproval. "Who was it this time?" He knows me too well.

That's why I don't even make the effort to deceive him. "Dash and Holley. Do you remember her? She was singing and Dash didn't like the song." I bite my lip, their voices flickering through my mind.

He nods. "Are they gone now?"

"Yes," I say. And it's true. The voices always seem to respect Finnick, so they're usually quiet when he's around. With others, it's not always so easy to get them to shut up. "My ears hurt," I observe suddenly.

"You were pulling on your ears," he says quietly.

He takes my waist, holding me gently to him, and kisses me on the forehead.

"It's only four in the morning," he says, checking his watch. "Maybe you should get some more sleep before it's time for everyone to get up."

I don't say anything, too afraid of having to close my eyes again. They might start talking again. I don't want the looming blackness to keep washing over me. I will surely drown soon.

Then I take in Finnick's fatigued appearance—the circles under his eyes, his wearied expression… and I know the night has been a restless one for him. More than likely, I kept him up half the night talking in my dreams. It wouldn't be the first time. He only ever wakes me if things start getting bad. I don't remember exactly what happened last night. It must not have been that bad. Weird enough, the only things I can remember are the screams at the very end.

"I think I'll lie down," I say quickly. "Try to get some sleep." It sounds like a question. I'm not really tired, but Finnick looks exhausted.

So I curl up on my side and he squeezes in next to me because I can't stand being alone. This is usual routine. We leave on the light. After only a few minutes, sleep evades Finnick and he lies peaceful. I like watching him sleep. It's weird, I know. I've watched him sleep countless times under the sedation the doctors administer. But watching him sleep naturally is different. His face relaxes—his eyes, his jaw, the creases between his brow—and I never fail to be struck by his absolute perfection. He looks like the young Finnick that used to jump through the waves with his best friend's little sister.

Dash. I try not to think about my brother's name. But sometimes I slip.

To take my mind off things that make it a little harder to breathe, I slowly trace my hand over Finnick's forehead. I arrange his hair, piece by piece, until it lies totally smooth and unknotted. It's an obsession I have. It's relaxing. He stays still. Perhaps he is awake, but doesn't want to ruin the moment by opening his eyes. That's fine by me. His eyes always distract me too much. If I look too closely, I have the potential of getting lost in that ever-tossing sea of green.

When I am finished with his hair, I move down to his chest, tracing the contours of his muscles with my index finger, feeling its gentle rise and fall with my palm. My hand inches down his arm, greedily, until it reaches his wrist.

There are nail marks in the side. My nail marks.

For the first time since I got here, I feel something warm (that's not blood) dripping down my cheek. I taste it and it's salty.

I think I know why I'm crying.

It's because I don't understand. I don't understand how the universe could function to bring me Finnick Odair. It doesn't make sense. Finnick. The golden boy. A celebrated Hunger Games victor. One who is so perfect and so good in every way, that he could have any person in the world.

So why is he lying here, trying to comfort the crazy girl from District 4 who can't even keep the voices inside her own head? He deserves so much better than me. I can't prevent the thoughts from coming quick and fast now, flowing like fire through my mind. He could have anyone and he shouldn't be anchored down by me. It's too much. I scratched him during my little attack of sanity.

I can just picture it. When all of this is done… him sitting on the beach in a little shell cottage with a nice wife who can give him so much. He won't have to spend sleepless nights comforting her and whispering to her and making sure she doesn't stab herself in forehead. They will be equals—something I will never be able to attain. They'll rock their babies on the front porch.

There are some dreams that are disproportional. If we were judged on our merits, like how the Gamemakers judge our skills at the games, we'd be given numbers. Finnick would get a twelve. No doubt. How he has strived to live a life of such goodness, I will never know.

I will probably get a two. Or a half. I wonder if anyone has ever received a half a point. I'm not evil or bad. But I'm crazy and can't do anything productive. I can't help or console people the way Finnick can't. I can't reassure and take care of others—

 _You can barely take care of yourself._

"What?" I whisper.

 _You heard me,_ Thursday sighs. Of course it's Thursday. I can tell it's going to be another one of those conversations. _You can't even take care of yourself. Hasn't that been Finnick's job lately? And what do you ever do for him?_

"I…" I'm instantly on the defensive side. "I help him." The words sound hollow. Dead.

 _Mm hm._ Thursday is unconvinced.

I quickly move off the bed to the chair in the corner, so Finnick won't hear my quiet conversation with myself.

 _How can you ever repay what he does for you every day? Weren't you just thinking about proportion?_

I'm silent for a long time. So silent, Thursday has to prod me back with a _Annie, you listening?_

"I can't," I whisper, barely audible.

 _Can't what?_

"I can't ever repay him. Don't you see, Thursday? I'll never be able to be equal to him. They may call him the Golden Boy on the outside, but I know the real gold is on the inside."

 _You don't deserve him. What can you offer?_

I think for a moment, trying to give her an adequate answer.

"I can love him. More than anyone else. Because I have lost everything, even my mind. All I _can_ do is love him."

 _You're a stupid girl, you know that Annie? You can't ever reciprocate what Finnick does._

"I know," I sob. I curl into a ball, hugging my knees to my chest.

 _Stupid, stupid girl. You're not a princess. You can't just expect that you automatically get the prince!_

"Please, Thursday, just go away. I've had enough for one night."

 _You're weak, Annie. That's what you are. Just a weak, little girl. You can't even block me out._

"You're being mean, Thursday!"

 _'_ _You're being mean, Thursday,'_ she mocks. _Weak!_

"Stop it! Get out of my head!" The words come out more forcefully than I expected. I'm startled into silence. So is Thursday. Finnick shifts in his sleep. I hold my breath.

 _Now you've done it. Waking him up, dragging him down just because you're crazy._

It's true. The part about the dragging him down. But Finnick just rolls over and keeps snoring. I let out the breath.

 _Annie, I'm not trying to be mean,_ Thursday says. She's using that voice she used to console me with when I was in grade school. _But I wouldn't be talking to you if you didn't know that you and Finnick are no good together._

I nod my head in dejection, curling my knees tighter to my chest.

 _Are you going to weigh him down for the rest of his life? He has so much potential. He can have anyone—you said so yourself. Staying with him will only keep him from doing anything but staying home, caring for his crazy girlfriend, sleeping dead tired at the end of the day. Will that be fun? Do you think that will be a nice life for him. Huh, Annie? Do you think he will love you after all of that?_

"No," I say, feeling like an insignificant child again.

 _You can't give him anything._ Thursday is beginning to sound mean again. _Personally, I don't even see how he can love you._

I shrug, shaking my head. "I don't know Thursday. He just does."

 _And you love him._

"I do."

 _You love him and you're still going to_ stay _with him?_

"Well, what am I supposed to do?"

 _You'll only drag him down, Annie. We already discussed this. In fact, we've talked about this even before this lovely morning. You know what they say: if you really love someone, you have to set them free._

I swallow. We have talked about this before. But never has Thursday proposed that I leave Finnick. Granted, I would be leaving to give him a better life. But… leaving? It feels like a lead weight is being dropped on my stomach. My feet are surely sinking into the ground at the prospect.

Finnick stirs again. I reprimand myself for being so weak. Thursday tries to talk to me again, but I stubbornly refuse to answer. Finally, she gets bored and probably decides to go talk to someone else. I'm too wrapped up in my thoughts to care.

 _If you really love someone, you have to set them free._ That much is true. I realize no one is talking to me. I can hear my own thoughts echoing in my head. I've always known, deep in my heart, that Finnick deserved someone better than me. I've always known that sometime I would have to tell him that. I suppose I'd just been postponing the moment as long as possible.

It isn't right to lock him up like this. He's so infatuated, that he thinks it impossible to leave. He thinks he loves me. I know I love him. I can't keep him chained up like this, bound to the crazy girl like some wild dog to a post. It's despicable.

He thinks he loves me. Maybe he really does. But Finnick's strong. He'll be able to survive if—no, _when_ , I force myself to think—I leave. He'll get over it, like he leaves all the people in the Capitol. I know he is not that shallow, but time heals all wounds. Things will be sunnier when I'm gone.

I doubt _I'll_ ever heal. That won't bother me, though. I don't think so. Just knowing that he is well and safe and happy… that will be enough medicine to last me a lifetime.

I don't dwell on my thoughts too long. I feel them weighing me down; chaining me to the ground with some crazy gravitational pull. I won't be able to get up a six hours. Thursday chimes in that I have prolonged the separation long enough; that if I don't do it now, I will never have the guts to do what's right.

My butt hurts by the time the alarm beeps at six hours. Finnick draws his arms around the sheets, searching for something, and then bolts upright.

"Annie! Where are you?" he gasps.

"I'm right here," I reassure him.

"What are you doing over there?"

I shrug. He beckons me over to him. I go and sit precariously on the edge of the bed, a reserved to feet away from him. I fold my hands. I'm afraid the energy between us is going to give off electrical sparks. Finnick gives me a confused look, then literally swings me onto his lap. He's so strong, I don't bother fighting. If he wants to hold me, he's going to, one way or another.

Finnick gently cradles my head to his chest, the way he does when he knows something is wrong. Sometimes I swear he has a sixth sense that tells him. He doesn't ask, though, which is fine by me. He just breathes. I can feel the sound rumbling through my own heart, strokes my hair, kisses my head. Time seems to be frozen. My body reacts instinctively, relaxing in his arms without my consent. My mind is not so lucky. It is in absolute tumult.

That's why when he cranes his head down to kiss me, all I can muster is, "Please don't."

He looks confused. Then his face falls. The sight breaks my heart. I tell myself I'm going to have to get used to it if I'm going to set him free. I clear my throat, trying to appear more composed. "Maybe later." I try smiling. It hurts my cheeks.

The bell rings again. Finnick has been accustomed to ignoring it during his stay in District 13 because he has been labeled as mentally unstable. Today, he makes an effort to get up, get dressed, and meet upstairs in the dining hall.

I leave for my room, reluctantly, though still mulling over what Thursday was saying. I get dressed in the plain everyday clothes of District 13. Halfway through, Finnick comes knocking to get in. I feel myself turning the doorknob, only half dressed, as I would normally do in my eagerness to see him again. I quickly withdraw my hand, pull my shirt all the way over my head, and then unlock the door.

Finnick bursts inside. "Annie." He takes me by the shoulders, trying to steady himself. His voice is pleading. "Tell me what's wrong. Please. You're upset. Are the voices bothering you?"

He grasps my chin gently. I turn away.

"You see what I mean? Annie, please, I want to help you. This isn't normal."

Nothing is normal here, I want to scream. But his voice is so beautiful. It fills my spirit with a strange, sweet contentment. _Don't be weak_ , I think.

"I'm hungry," I say. He can tell I don't want to talk and he's not going to push it. He simply takes my hand as we walk down to the Dining Hall. I don't try to let go, since he looks so despondent.

We're late and the porridge is cold. We have schedules printed on our arms. Neither of us reads them. We walk down to our compartments in silence.

That's when I decide I've put it off long enough. I don't wait. I never have liked waiting. I'd rather rip off the band-aid all at once. My hands start twitching to rip it off.

We both open our mouths to speak at once.

"You first," he offers politely.

I bite my lip.

"Finnick," I begin. "Fin," I laugh at the informality, choking on my tears. I hadn't even noticed I was crying. He has both hands on my waist. I can't escape now.

"Fin, I want you to be happy." He doesn't move. He's become a frozen statue of some god from another world. "And

We

Can't

Be

Together."

I didn't mean to say it so bluntly. It comes out choppy; each word its own sentence. The words don't seem to want to fit together. They are magnets, mashed together by human force. Then the words start to flow and they are waves bashing against the jetty over and over again.

"Fin, what I mean is that you deserve so much more than me and I can't hold you down anymore because no matter how much you love me, you'll always be held down by me. I'm not good enough… I can't compete… it's just—"

The waves of words are tangled now. Messy. Mingled with my salty tears and sobs.

"You should have someone wonderful because you're wonderful and I want you to have a wonderful life and I know you'll never get that with me. I love you and that's why you need to—"

All of a sudden, the words seem to stop. It takes me a moment for me to realize it's because he lips are crushing mine. Burning mine. Before I get too wrapped up to remember where I am, I push away. Or at least try too. I'm desperate to finish before he tries to take matters into his own hands. I'm pressed up against a wall and it's not like I can just push Finnick Odair off of me. I'm not making much progress.

Between gasps, I try to continue. Finnick is not going to let that happen.

"Annie, I don't want you to say another word," he breaths into my throat. "Don't. Even. Try."

"No, Fin, stop it," I banter. "I want to finish."

"You're not allowed to finish," he sobs. He's crying, too. "Annie, why are you doing this to me?"

"Because it's the right thing to do!" I shout. "Because I love you more than anything in the world!"

"Then stay!" he pressed his lips to mine again and again. It's like he's trying to suck the conviction straight from my lips. My determination is fading.

"I want to," I moan. "But I want you to be happy more. I want that more than anything. Don't you see that, Fin? You can finally be happy without me." Why can't he see that?

I narrow my eyes. The salt water is stinging them. There is so much of it, what with his tears intermixing with mine, I feel like I'm drowning.

"Please, Fin, you should just go. Leave me."

"Annie, you're crazy!"

"I know," I sob. "I know, I know, I know."

"I wasn't referring to that type of crazy." His forehead is pressed to mine, our noses touching. His breath his hot as it flutters over my eyelashes. "You think I'd be _happy_ without you?" he demands incredulously. "You think I'd be able to _live_ without you?"

I swallow. He sinks down to the ground, trembling. For a moment, I think he might have fainted, but then he raises his glistening face, still beautiful, despite this moment of agony.

"Annie, it's my turn," he begs. He is on his knees, pleading. He takes a shaky breath. "Don't leave." It's just a whisper. "Please, stay. You love me. Why would you leave someone you love? It doesn't make sense. You say I'll be happy if we're apart, but that's saying I'll be happy if I'm dead. Surely, you know that. Annie, if you leave, I will be _dead._ I've survived two Hunger Games. But, this… no, I won't be able to survive. I've nothing left to live for, anyway. Without you, I'll turn into a shell. A shell of some boy they used to call Finnick Odair… nothing else.

"You are the reason I'm alive. Why I can open my eyes in the morning and not be afraid of what's coming. Why the nightmares don't hurt; they only linger in the shadows. Why caring for you—even when you think yourself insane and worthless—why caring for you is no more a burden to me than caring for myself. It's essential to life. I have no idea how to prove that I love you. I don't know enough words to express a love that great. A love to cross oceans for… to _leave_ the ocean for, if it meant being able to stay with you."

Leaving the ocean. The thought is formidable to anyone from District 4.

"Annie, I would give the world if I could live with you in a place without conflict, even if it meant we were hermits in the desert." He laughs grimly. "Do you love me?"

"Yes." I barely hear myself answer, but he does.

"Then stay," he whispers. "Stay and… And marry me. We can be together always. And live in a little cottage by the sea, just like the games we used to play when we were young. We'll both keep each other's heads above the waves. Stay. That's all I'm asking. I can't promise you a grand life, devoid of problems and bad memories… but I can promise to love you every second of every hour of every day; to love you more than the sea or the land; to love you more than the air I breathe."

He doesn't have a ring. He doesn't have anything. Just his two hands. And he takes my hands in them and buries his face in them.

"I love you, Annie. I love you. Please marry me."

I don't have to tell my legs to move. My knees keel forward automatically. My arms wind their way up his shoulders, around his neck, finding his head. My body's glued to him. I don't think I could retract myself if I wanted to. Fortunately, I don't. My lips are moving so desperately against his, it's hard to muster distinguished words. Somehow, I manage.

"Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes."

Sometimes it pays off to be crazy. Any sane person would have left a long time ago, determined to see her way through to the end. But I don't. I stay curled up beside him, totally blocking the hallway, unable to see anything but the red warmth behind my eyelids as I kiss him again and again.


	5. Chapter 5

It's been two days since Finnick asked me to marry him. I still don't fully believe it's true. I'm waiting for his smooth skin to disappear beneath my fingers like mist, or to wake up one morning huddled in the cold cell, trying fruitlessly to breathe in the dank air. Oh, well. As long as I'm in this dream, I don't plan on waking up any time soon.

I'm in the hospital as Nurse Christa assesses my cuts which have sealed up nicely and my bruises which have altogether disappeared. Finnick has run away to fetch a man he calls Plutarch.

My mouth goes dry under the realization of what is to come; why he's bring Plutarch here to tell him something important…

"You're looking good, Annie. You can go back to your room now."

…Our wedding. How could something so impossibly bright and happy find its way into such a drastic place? It seems impossible to me. I shake my head in wonder, gripping the little railing of my bed to steady myself.

I'm getting married.

I get Finnick.

I get to live.

My lips pull into an involuntary smile at the thought.

I realize I haven't heard from the voices only when Tuss's voice actually pops into my head. I gasp in surprise.

 _How's my Annie girl?_ Tuss teases. _Did you finally work up the guts to ask him to marry you, Annie girl, huh?_

Someone else laughs but I can't recognize the voice. It's one I haven't heard in a while. She _didn't ask him, Tuss. You know that! Stop making the stupid girl sad._

 _Sorry, Annie girl,_ Tuss muses. _What's the matter anyway? Why you so upset?_

I shake my head in defiance, willing the voices to go away. I can't stand their chatter, especially when it's directed at me.

 _You gonna punch someone with those puny fists? Like that pretty, little lover boy?_

I realize my fingers are balled up around the frame of the bed. I attempt unsuccessfully to relax them. My knuckles are turning white.

Tuss continues, _Maybe you can knock some sense into dear Finnick and convince him not to marry you, Annie girl! Would you like that Annie girl, huh?_

"No!" I scream, shaking my head to try and rid myself of Tuss' voice. It's not working. Thin beads of perspiration are forming on my head with the effort.

The second voice laughs again, and I finally realize who it is. My throat closes up. _Oh, so you remember me now?_ it chortles.

"Ebb?" I squeak.

 _Here I am, the amazing Annie from District Four!_ He laughs, mimicking my voice, unusually high with hysteria. _I'm just living the life of my dreams with my beautiful lover boy! Oops, I almost forgot! I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for dear old Ebb. Silly me!_ Ebb laughs again, emitting a terrifying screeching noise.

"Stop it, Ebb! Please, I didn't mean to leave you!"

"Leave me?" Ebb asks, confused. He shakes the water droplets from his brown mop of hair. " _I_ was the one that told you to get the berries. Did you get them?"

"Yes." I hold out the knapsack full of ripe blackberries. "I'm sorry. I couldn't get any fish. I searched the stream, but there were none."

"That's okay, Annie," Ebb says, but I can tell he's disappointed. We're both famished.

We sit down by a saltwater creek and split the blackberries I gathered.

"Ebb," I begin. "Maybe we shouldn't have split up so soon."

Ebb shakes his head.

"We could have used their help."

Ebb bangs his fist on the ground, unable to keep still. "They were getting suspicious," he says at last.

I drop my head. I know why. I'm not a good fighter. Sure, the Careers were more than willing to take Ebb along, but he refused to join their pack without me. Said partners from District 4 ought to stay together. They grudgingly agreed.

But now, with half of the tributes dead, Ebb and I could sense that it wouldn't be long before they zeroed in on me as the one to kill. That's why we snuck away in the middle of the night. We didn't have any supplies, only a few knives and a wicked spiked ball Ebb had picked up at the Cornucopia.

I'm still not sure how to thank Ebb. He knows I have no chance of winning, yet he has still split away from the Careers and taken me on as a burden.

"It was only a matter of time before I would have had to leave them anyway," he had shrugged the first time I had mentioned this.

"I bet you'll win," I had replied back wearily. "You're the best fighter here. You'll get to see you mom and your sister again."

"Yeah… yeah, I hope so."

He had seemed hopeful at the time. Now he looked solemn and frail, as if the life had been sucked out of him.

"Who's left?" I ask.

He counts the names of the remaining tributes off on his fingers. "I was thinking we could try and take out the girl from eleven in the evening. She's not particularly big. Maybe you could do it."

"Me?" I swallow.

"Or not," Ebb says, seeing my expression.

I have never killed anyone before. My hands begin to quiver.

"I-I could try," I manage feebly. "M-maybe if I close my eyes. Do you think she'll scream?"

"I don't know, Annie. Would you scream if you were being stabbed or mutilated?"

I wince. "Okay, I get it. I get it."

Ebb pops a berry into his mouth. "How are we on supplies?"

"We have one liter of water, the few knives that we stole from Jade and Lethe, that compact blanket, and, well… that's it," I admit, pushing the backpack away.

"Fantastic," Ebb says bitterly.

"Ebb," I begin weakly. "I-I never got the chance to… to thank you for—"

There are so many things I want to say: for taking me on when the rest of the Careers rejected me, for staying with me even though the Games are halfway over, for killing that guy who came at me with a sword.

But Ebb shushes me. I know better than to proceed. Ebb has hypersensitive hearing, as well as combat skills. He was one of those kids that loved playing training for the Games as a child, though never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he would be selected.

He hears something that is too distant for my ears and his face hardens.

"Go back to the dam," he tells me evenly. "I'll catch up with you in an hour."

"Why? What is it?"

"I think it's just the girl from District Eleven," he says waving me away. "Go and promise you'll stay hidden."

"But, Ebb—"

"Do as I say, Annie!" he demands.

"Okay." I back down. Ebb knows how to handle himself. That much he has made clear and we both know that I will only get into the way if it comes to a fight.

"Oh, and Annie?" he says as I turn to go.

"Yeah?"

"Take this." He tosses a dagger at my feet. "Just in case."

"Thanks," I say. I flash Ebb a thumbs up. "You got this. I believe in you."

Ebb smirks that old smile that I've seen only a few times before.

"Go on, Annie! Before she gets here."

"Okay." I grab the dagger and start toward the dam. In the beginning of the Games, as Ebb and I took watch, he pointed out the dam as the safest hideout for District 4 tributes. He claimed that the mass of water ought to keep out the other tributes.

But I stop before I get too far. Instead of making it all the way to the dam, I sink into the reeds that line the salt water bank. They're at least four feet high and so dense that no one can walk through easily. A perfect hiding place.

I can watch Ebb from here. A tiny part of me is hoping that I can help in some way; perhaps pay back all of the generous things Ebb has already done for me. I imagine myself launching out of the reeds, embedding this dagger in the poor girl's neck.

A shiver of giddy nervousness runs down my spine. I peer through the reeds just as a shadow approaches.

"Well, well, well, look who we finally found. We thought we were tracking those dimwits from eight." Jade emerges, her signature pickax in hand.

"Instead, you alone…" says the other District one boy, Lethe. "What'd you do with that other chick you were carrying around?"

"I took care of her," Ebb says in a thick voice. "If she's not already dead she will be soon."

"Pity. We could have dealt with her for you," Jade coos. She slaps the base of the pickax against her palm, threateningly.

I can't breathe. I feel like I'm watching the scene from the Hunger Games through a television, as I used to as a little kid. Frozen. Plastered to the muddy bank. I don't think I can will myself to move.

Ebb grips his pickax. "You know this isn't going to end well. I'm one of the best fighters here."

"I know," Jade sighs. "Which is why we have to take you out when we get the chance."

And in that moment, the last Career, a brusque dark-skinned boy from District Two charges out of the forest, hurling through the air at a hundred miles an hour, and slams a meat cleaver into Ebb's neck. It happens so fast, my eyes cannot comprehend what has happened.

Blood erupts from the aorta in Ebb's neck, like a volcano exploding. His neck snaps from the momentum of the impact and curls sickeningly toward the cleaver blade. Ebb sinks to the floor. His fingers twitch.

The boy with the cleaver raises it above his head and slam it down upon Ebb's neck.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice. He is my mother decapitating the fish in the warehouses.

Flecks of blood pepper his murderous face. Blood is gushing everywhere, running like a river into the creek, where is flows downstream in an endless crimson ribbon. A piece of flesh is torn. I can see Ebb's fragmented spinal cord jutting out of the ominous heap of flesh and blood that used to be his neck.

Jade bumps fists with the boy from two.

I cannot take my eyes off the body. Its head is facing me, eyes peeled open in horror, their whites now spotted with red. The face smiles.

I scream. I hear Ebb's screams.

The careers turn to me. They smile and blood begins to runs down from their necks, their eyes, ears, noses, and mouths, leaking as if someone released a million valves.

I scream. Blood masks my vision.

"NOOOOO!" I shriek, pounding the wall. "GET AWAY!"

"Annie!" Finnick exclaims, rushing over. He clasps my hands. "Are you okay?" he demands, his breath blowing hot and fast over my face. "Did you have a flash-out? Don't worry. I'm here."

I try not to collapse in his arms, taking deep, shaky breaths to reassure myself that I'm alright.

"It's alright. It's alright," Finnick breathes. "I'll always be right here. I won't let them hurt you ever again."

"They're—they're—" I look widely around me, waiting for blood to rush out of Finnick's face and the nurses' faces too.

I feel his familiar hands smoothing my hair away from my eyes. Ebb's screams are fading, as if the sirens are pulling slowly away.

"It's okay. I've got you."

"They were—Ebb was—"

"I know, darling. I remember what happened."

"I _saw_ him!"

"It wasn't real."

"The blood—the blood—it was in their eyes!"

"Whose eyes?"

"The Careers! It was—it was—everywhere! It was everywhere! Finnick, I was so scared!"

I grab onto him and he holds me steady.

"I should never have left. Don't worry; it won't happen again," he declares. He hugs me to his chest until my rattled breaths slow.

"Have you ever seen the sun set twice?" he asks.

"What?" I sniff.

"They say if you watch the sun set from a cliff, you can run down to the beach and watch it set again."

"H-how?"

He shrugs. "The sea is like a mirror. It reflects the most beautiful things."

"I've never seen it, but it sounds great."

"Well, when this big mess is over, we'll watch it together, you and me. We'll go to that cliff next to the Albatross Market and watch the sun set two times," he suggests.

"I'd like that."

"Me too."

Finnick coaxes my face up to his with a skillful finger. "I love you, Annie." He kisses both of my cheeks. "It's going to be alright." He brushes his lips down the ridge of my nose. "Now that we're together." Finally he goes for the lips.

When his love has completely heals my mind's seeping wounds, I regain my breath and ask, "Could you not find Plutarch?"

"He wasn't in the Command room, so Boggs told me to check the Defense Unit. I figured I come over and pick you up first."

I nod, though I don't speak. I'm too afraid Ebb or Tuss will come back. Out of any of my visitors, they're by far the least friendly. Instead, Holley comes in as we walk, full of chitters and ideas for Finnick and my wedding, as we walk to the Defense Unit.

I must be nervous because she won't shut up.

By the time we reach our person of interest, Holley is driving me insane. Finnick thought it best we tell a rather chubby, man with greying hair about our wedding first. I don't know him very well, but he seemed nice enough the last time I met him—very briefly, the morning after I arrived in District 13. Finnick says he's the man in charge of District 13 and the rebellion, but I thought I remembered him from the Capitol as well. Oh well, if Finnick trusts him, I do too.

"Hello, Finnick," he says and then beams down at me. I shrink back into Finnick, thinking his smile and face are all too Capitol like. "You must be Annie. I've heard much about you!" he tells me, shaking my hand. "I'm Plutarch Heavensbee, in case you don't remember me."

I don't, but I don't tell him that. Instead I tentatively stick out my hand.

 _He's too nice!_ Holley assures me, pooping into my head again. _In fact, I like him!_ She starts to hum an odd little tune she made up herself.

"Holley," I murmur between my teeth. Like all new people I meet, I try not to make Plutarch think I'm absolutely bonkers. My words are barely audible. "Please stop."

 _Why? You don't like my singing? Fine I'll stop._ She mopes.

Plutarch stares at me, curious.

"Did you hear him, Annie?" Finnick asks sweetly.

I shake my head.

Plutarch laughs, but it's a friendly laugh—the first one I've heard in weeks. "It's alright. We were just asking you if you wanted to add anything special to the wedding. I think the idea is just the perfect thing, to brighten up our lives. We'll do it Capitol style!"

I wince, wishing that Finnick would say something. All my secure feelings about Plutarch dissolve.

Plutarch and Finnick instantly realize what's happened and Plutarch shakes his head. "No, I know what you're thinking. What I'm talking about is a grand celebration. Remember the time when you stayed at the Capitol?"

I want to disappear. Plutarch's face is a mask of innocence. "Yes," I manage to squeak. It take me a moment to realize he's not talking about when I was being tortured, but when I was eating feasts for being a victor. "Yes," I say with more confidence.

"We'll make it the grandest, biggest celebration the districts have ever known! It'll be wonderful for the propos!" he says. "I have to tell Coin right away!"

He touches a headpiece by his ear and murmurs something quietly into it. "Good. This is important, Coin." He nods then pressed the headpiece again. He looks up at Finnick and me. "She'll be over right away."

A few minutes later, a grumpy old lady with short, cropped hair comes in. I've seen her before, but I'm not sure where. I don't think she likes Plutarch much though, by the way she's glaring at him and I can't decide who's higher in rank.

Plutarch nods in Coin's direction. "Finnick Odair and Annie Cresta are getting married!" he announces.

Coin frowns immediately. "That's your idea of a sneak attack on the Capitol?" she asks.

"Well, yes," he replies. "Isn't it the best thing to do if the Capitol sees we're having _fun_ in a war?"

 _Oh, a wedding! So much fun in a wedding! I wish I got to have one! Too bad it was Finnick's_ FAULT _I didn't get to have one!_ Marina says. _Here comes the bride… All dressed in white… Oh, I have an idea: Why don't I spoil your dream like Finnick spoiled mine! Rime! Rime! RIME!_ She screams, getting louder each time. I feel as if at any moment my ears are going to bleed.

 _Be quiet Marina!_ Rime cries. _You're hurting my ears._

 _Rime, why don't you help me ruin her wedding like they ruined ours?_

 _I never asked you to marry me. I never had the chance._

 _EXACTLY! But you would have! Or maybe I'd ask you. Either way, these are the people who ruined it!_

"No, we didn't!" I exclaim, forgetting about Plutarch and Coin. I clench my hands into fists with anxiety.

 _Then why aren't I here today? Huh? Why aren't I getting married? Oh Annie, you really did get stupider since the last time I saw you. If I can't have my dream wedding, neither can you. You are not going to get married! You hear me? YOU ARE NEVER GOING TO GET MARRIED!_

I cover my ears. "Marina, stop! Please stop!"

Coin frowns. I'm not sure if I said that last part out loud or not. I bite my lip nervously. Finnick is watching me pensively, anxiety lingering behind his green eyes.

I look to the ground apologetically. I want to pay attention, I really do. But these insane voices keep me from doing anything like a normal person. I wish they would go away.

I'm not crazy, I remind myself. Not more than any of the other tributes.

"You're sure this is a good idea, Plutarch?" Coin asks. Her mouth is a mask of wrinkles. It barely moves when she speaks.

"Of course, I'm sure! This is exactly the type of propaganda we need to lift up the morals of the districts. Finnick Odair and Annie Cresta! The celebrated victors that will go to any lengths to be together!"

That sounds a lot more bravado that I would have ever thought. I steal a glance at Finnick and know he is thinking the same thing. He snickers.

Does Coin ever smile? She seems apt to the idea of propaganda to support the district, but even that doesn't seem to be able to lift her spirits. She eyes Plutarch warily.

"This is your domain, Heavensbee. You take care of it. This has nothing to do with the rebellion, other than the fact that it shall be recorded and stored as usage in District 13's national broadcasting," she says and turns to Finnick and I. "I assume that you will be okay with this?"

She is asking permission.

"Yes, that'll be perfect!" Finnick doesn't skip a beat. "Thank you so, so much!"

He looks so happy, he could just hug Coin… except that Coin doesn't appear a very hug-y person.

She nods pointedly.

"Now, I don't want a raucous celebration," she warns Plutarch. "These are trying times; you must realize that this is not a priority."

"Raucous celebration!" Plutarch repeats indignantly. "No, this shall be a grand gathering, better than any old wedding they could host at the Capitol! I can picture it now: Guests in beautiful gowns! Drapes rippling with the colors of the sea! Oh, we'll have a lovely band with gold instruments—"

"No," says Coin.

"What are you complaining about?" Plutarch challenges.

"No lavish decorations. None of your filthy riches. This is not a Capitol celebration, Plutarch. Here in District 13, a man and a woman are united through a simple documentation of vows."

"And what fun is that?" exclaims Plutarch.

"Agreements do not always have to be _fun_. I'm allowing you to have this wedding on the terms that you do not turn this into some radical explosion of Capitol pop-culture and that any demands for the wedding come second to demands for weapons and security in District 13."

"Deal," Finnick says before Plutarch can protest.

Plutarch narrows his eyes.

"It sounds like a lovely celebration. I've never wanted a Capitol wedding," Finnick explains. He takes my hands in his. "Why don't we have the District 4 traditions? The salt water? The nets? It'll be simple, not overdone."

"It'll be home," I say.

I smile at Finnick, his face beautifully illuminated by his excitement. I can't help feeling excited, myself. Belonging with Finnick forever… It sounds more like a dream than real life.

 _Don't get your hopes up, Annie,_ Rime adds quietly. _Wouldn't want you to disappoint yourself._

I shake my head.

 _I'm just looking out for you, Annie,_ he reiterates. _Be a smart girl… for Marina and me._

 _I'll try_ , I think in response.

I focus on the words Coin is speaking to us all. She doesn't talk directly to me, I realize. Her eyes skim over me, between Plutarch and Finnick, as if she doubts that I can understand anything she says. Maybe she is right.

"—limit the number of guests. I'll be in my office if you need me." She turns and hobbles down the hallway to the elevator shaft at the other end.

My stomach churns. She didn't seem very happy.

But Plutarch breaks out into a huge smile the minute she is gone with a loud whoop of elation. "That went very well, wouldn't you say?"

Finnick looks just as confused as I do.


	6. Chapter 6

"Are you sure you don't want me to come?" Finnick doesn't want to let go of my hand.

Katniss Everdeen rolls her eyes impatiently. "Isn't it customary or something for the groom _not_ to see the wedding dress before the wedding?"

"How would you know?" Finnick retorts.

"Honestly, Finnick, you seem to think I lived under a rock my whole life."

He cracks a smile, then turns to me. "Are you going to be alright?"

I nod. "I think so. No one has bothered me today." I doubt Katniss knows what that really means: that no _voices_ have bothered me today. I really don't want to freak her out during our first meeting. "I promise, Fin, we'll be fine."

"Isn't it a little dangerous, going back to District Twelve?"

"No one is there," Katniss interjects. "It's totally empty."

"But couldn't there be bombers?"

"You worry too much." Katniss folds her arms, but she doesn't push the subject.

"Please don't worry." I squeeze his hand between mine. Maybe the pressure will get him to release his death grip on me.

"I'm not… I'm not worrying," he scoffs. I frown. "Okay, maybe a little. Annie, this is the first time you're leaving. It's just… hard."

"I get it." I do. It's the first time we're being separated after the Quarter Quell. It hurts. There is a dull aching in the pit of my stomach. "But Katniss knows her way around. We'll be fine," I reassure him.

Instead of trying to protest anymore, Finnick grabs me, entrapping me in his arms. His lips find mine within seconds and one hand tangles through my hair. I can tell he's really stressing out. I don't think anyone realized how terribly fragile their Golden Boy is. I grasp his chin with both hands, gently massaging the muscles in his face.

He won't let go of me. Those beautiful lips seem to be glued to mine. In between kisses, he somehow manages to articulate, "Just be careful."

Katniss is waiting. I'm not sure how long we've been stuck in this embrace—time never seems to work when I'm in Finnick's arms—but she eventually clears her throat. "We should go before it gets too late."

I nod, very casually pushing Finnick away. I don't want to let go, but I force myself to. With one last nod, we board the hovercraft. Finnick stares at Katniss, as if she's balancing his most prized possession on top of her head.

I wave from the inside as we fly away. He's still standing there. He probably won't leave until someone forces him inside. I laugh at the prospect, then stop when I catch Katniss and her prep team looking at me. I'm not sure why exactly they are here, but they seem nice enough.

I clear my throat. I can't seem to find the words to express how grateful I am to her. "Thank you for taking me," I say shyly. Though I was born before Katniss, I can't be struck by how much older she looks. Not in the aged way with a bunch of lines at the corners of her eyes, but in the mature, developed way—she has experienced too much. Probably more than I have.

"No problem," she says. "I'm happy for you guys. Besides, it's not like I'm ever going to use these dresses again. Might as well not let them go to waste."

I nod, gazing out the window at the fluffy drifts of clouds that streak by.

After a moment, Katniss begins. "When you were at the Capitol…" She hesitates, biting her lip.

I'm practically chewing my own off because of the bad memories the name brings up. I hear murmuring and my mind's such a whirl, I can't tell whether it's the pilots flying the plane, or my own voices babbling in conflict.

"Yes?" I encourage her, trying to ignore whosever voices those are.

"Did you… did you ever see Peeta?" she blurts out.

"Oh." I shake my head, part of me glad that I don't know the answer; the other part sinking a little because I know Katniss is hurting. "No," I say quietly. "I only saw him once."

Katniss' head droops down a little further and I feel compelled to explain more because somehow guilt for lack of information about Peeta is weighing me down.

"They didn't care about me," I whisper. I don't know if she can hear or not. "They kept me locked up in a little cellar, away from all the important stuff. They didn't do anything bad to me. Not really…" I trail off.

Katniss is looking at me again, expecting me to go on. It's proving difficult, since my air passages seem to have barricaded themselves against the memories of the mold and filth that clung to the ceilings, the bed frame, the dripping water…

"I couldn't see Peeta because no one ever let me out," I choke out. "No one came in either, expect the guards… when they got bored, probably… They used to come in when they were off duty, laughing, taunting me, their white uniforms stained with alcohol. They would tie me hands behind my back and sometimes throw little pebbles at my head, calling me crazy. They seemed to like it when I cried. I think it amused them.

"One day, one of the men accidentally broke a bottle from which he was drinking. He started yelling at me for distracting him with my tears, but I couldn't help it… I couldn't help it… They decided to make a sport out of cutting little designs in my skin with the pieces of the broken bottle. I was lucky because they only started their second game of tick-tack-toe when another guard came to yell at them."

I fold up the bottom of my pants leg to reveal the crisscross of scars across my shin. Katniss stiffens.

"I'm so sorry, Annie." Her usually resilient voice is saturated with something sad I can't identify. "So sorry."

Her words are just an echo. Tuss is yelling much too loudly, though Katniss cannot hear him.

 _You should feel lucky, Annie!_ he bursts out so loudly that I slap my hands over my ears. Katniss looks at me quizzically and I force my arms down. Tuss is still booming angrily, _Those guards didn't do nothing to you! Not one scratch compared to Johanna Mason! Would you rather they do that, Annie? Huh? Electrocute you like little Miss Mason? Or maybe mess up your brain even more than it already is, like Mr. Peeta?_

What is meant to be a scream of terror comes out more like a laugh because I'm trying so hard to repress it. Another strange look from Katniss.

 _Those guards were pretty damn nice to you!_ Tuss is fired up now and I'm mentally pleading for him to calm down. _Even when they were tearing into your clothes or banging on your skull. Did you ever scream once? I don't think so. No, no. Just cry, cry, cry._

It's strange, but I don't see Tuss. I don't see Katniss anymore either, which scares me a little. I don't think I'll be able to protect myself and I can't bear the thought of Finnick's face if they have to bring back my dead body.

I don't see the hovercraft at all. I'm in a small room; even smaller than the cubicle that I have in District 13. I only know because the dim sheaths of light from cracks in the door throw contrast of the walls of the cell. The smell of decaying flesh is making my head swirl. It's not just mold. I'm pretty sure somebody died in here. I'm too afraid to move off the stone bench; afraid that I will take a step and stumble over a dead body.

I tremble, but not from the bone cold air. There's a light at the door, I think. The light sways over the threshold, by the little cracks of the door. Footsteps clunking. Men are laughing outside the door; big boisterous laughs that rattle my frame.

"C'mon Kris!" one man chortles. "I'm dead exhausted!"

"Why can't we have some fun?" another demands.

I hear a clink of keys against a lock, tugging, then a loud thump of a body against metal. More laughter. The door swings open with a loud clank. I cringe.

"There she is!"

The dim light is blinding to my unaccustomed eyes. I blink, trying to adjust to my surroundings. It's difficult. I can barely lift my head.

"Is that Finnick Odair's girlfriend?" the first man asks.

"Sure is!" Kris guffaws. I recognize his voice, if not his face. He is no stranger. He patrols outside my cell every day. "Not much of a sight now, is she?"

"Well, you can't see much under those clothes, now, can you?

He laughs and I feel my stomach drop. I think I'm going to vomit. I do my best to hold it in. Who knows what Kris will do if I throw up on his polished shoes?

"She needs a drink, man!"

"You're right, Cobber!" Kris jams something hard to my lips. He yanks on my hair, tilting my head backwards, splashing some foul-smelling liquid down my throat… and all over my face. "Like that, eh, pretty?"

"Look at you!" Cobber complains to Kris. "You wasted all that!"

I see Kris' eyes narrow in the dim light. He turns on me. "Look what _you_ did! You made me spill the whole damn bottle!"

I want to protest, but I'm still coughing out liquor. It's streaming down from my nose. It burns.

Kris grabs my jaw roughly, squeezing my lips together into a pucker. "You listening to me, mad girl? You even hear what I'm saying?"

A sort of cry escapes from my lips.

"She hears you, Kris," Cobber says. He hasn't shifted his stance from the doorway.

"You think?" Kris bonks the empty bottle against my head. "Hello? You hear anything in there?"

"Yes," I gasp.

"She _can_ talk," Kris jeers. "Would you look at that! Little pretty can talk!"

"She don't took very pretty from where I'm standing," Cobber says.

"Why don't you stand up and show how pretty you are?" Kris says.

I try to obey, for I know there will surely be pain if I don't, but my legs wobble uncontrollably and I can't force my muscles to work.

"Come ON!" Kris demands. He grabs me roughly by the neck of my shirt, standing me up. "Don't have much meat on you anymore, do you?" He slaps his hand on my face and lets it trail down to my hip. I want to scream. He spins me around to face Cobber, grasping my head beneath his arm. It's rather hard to breathe. I manage to gasp little breaths of air. "What'd you think, Cobber?"

"Let's go, Kris."

"You want her?" Kris asks, ignoring him, toying with the edge of my shirt.

"No, I don't want your little toy. I wanna go to bed."

"Here, have her!" Kris peels off my shirt and pushes me hard, my body flying across the cell, slamming into Cobber, and then sliding to the floor. I don't move. I have no more strength than a rag doll.

Cobber scoffs impatiently.

"Oh, alright," Kris says. "Let's go." He steps over my unmoving body. His boots graze the top of my head. "Kiss my shoes," he says suddenly.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"I don't want to ask twice!" he thunders.

"Come on, man!" Cobber calls.

My head feels like a bowling ball when I lift it. I carefully plant a kiss on each shoe. Anything to get them to leave.

Kris laughs. "You're a good girl, pretty. Good girl." I hear the door slam. My head slumps against the ground, filling my nose with the putrid smell. Every part of my body aches, especially where Kris hit me with the bottle. Perhaps I will pass out soon. I can only hope for the best.

Instead, something is gently shaking my shoulder. I don't feel it at first, because it's been so long since anyone has touched me gently. But it gives me the strength to open my eyes.

"Annie, you okay?" Katniss asks. There is real concern in her eyes.

I try to remember where I am. "Yes," I answer automatically.

She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't pressure me further. I look away.

Finnick calls them flash-outs. Usually they don't last very long. Maybe five minutes at the most… but minutes in a flash-out seem like hours. That's where the word "flash" comes from. The word "out" is because I'm totally out of it. Reality is nothing compared to a flash-out. I wish I could escape, but it's like an invisible chord is binding me, hands and feet, to horrid memories. I can't escape from them. I never will. Every sight, ever sound, every smell… it's like a blow to the head. Disorienting. Mind-blowing.

And I can't be sure of anything. Not real life. Not flash-outs. Sometimes the flash-outs seem more plausible than real life, so my mind automatically jumps to them. They are more familiar, after all. So are the voices. Nothing is familiar in District 13. Nothing, except… Finnick, I've realized. Finnick is more real than the flash-outs, perhaps because I've known him for my whole life. They can't seem to compete with his presence, his voice, his eyes. It's like darkness trying to compete with a lantern.

Finnick can call me back. It's been so long since I've had a real flash-out. My own personal lantern is always there to banish the darkness. Only now, in this claustrophobically small hovercraft, is the darkness threatening to overwhelm me.

I'm determined to get the best of it.

I try to make conversation with Katniss and I think she's happy to oblige. There's not much to talk about that isn't morbidly depressing. We talk about the wedding and dresses. I don't care much about dresses and neither does Katniss, but she describes every one she has for me in detail. At least it takes my mind off other affairs.

I inquire after her sister and she tells me about Prim. A story about how she used to take care of this sickly little goat.

I laugh at that because it's so ridiculous.

Katniss raises her eyebrows.

"I've never seen a goat before," I explain. "Only in pictures. The most I ever had for a pet was a fish that I caught with my dad once. It was pitifully small by District 4 standards, but I took it home anyway and tried to keep it alive in a thermos bottle."

"Well, what happened to it?"

"Mother found it dead in the thermos and cooked it for dinner. I—" I stop.

Whatever happened to Mother? The Peacekeepers told me that she had gotten into a fishing accident when two boats collided, but no one I knew could ever testify to the incident. Had the Capitol lied about that too?

Oh no. What had they done?

For a horrible moment, I see her face—crinkled with lines from laboring in the sun most days and shining with perspiration, but smiling with those twinkling blue eyes—staring at me. I bite my lip.

Then the face morphs back into the eldest woman of Katniss's friends from the Capitol. They have been huddled toward the front of the hovercraft, talking amongst themselves, but now they all stop and stare at me.

I realize I'm staring back and I quickly turn to the window.

Finally, we land in District 12. We pick through the rubble of District 12 and make our way to the desolate Victors' Village. It looks so tiny. I remember the grand, white buildings in District 4, studded with abalone shells, with smooth, glossy driftwood planks lining the doors. They stood several stories high. Little grasses and seashore flowers would boarder the window sills and walkways. Just the smell of the salt leaves my heart aching. What I see in front of me cannot be a Victor's Village. I can barely make out the buildings underneath the thin layer of ash that blackens the cement.

Katniss kicks open the door—it's unlocked—and holds it open for us. Unlike its exterior, the house is clean on the inside. Upstairs, Katniss throws open the enormous closet doors, revealing several rows of dresses of a variety of colors. Her prep team gushes over the fabrics, examining the tiniest stitches, babbling about they styles in an almost unintelligible language.

Katniss huffs and tosses me a golden gown, embroidered with lace trimmings on the sleeves. "This might look nice. Try it on."

I do and it makes me look like a giant chrome bell jar. I tell Katniss this and she laughs.

"Or a bee hive," she jokes. I'm starting to like her a lot.

The woman with light green-tinted skin holds out a hand for my dress. It reminds me of the Hunger Games. The prep teams never did seem to have any problem with seeing victors naked. Katniss is more modest. She turns to the window as I peel the dress over my head. The green lady hands me another light blue dress with flowing sheer fabric cascading down the sides. It's so huge, it feels like I'm wearing a tent.

"You look gorgeous! What do you think, honey?" The lady spins me around, so that I'm facing the full-length mirror.

"Um…" I say.

"You can be honest," Katniss pipes up.

"Maybe I could try a different one?"

We must go through at least a dozen dresses. I fear that my escorts are getting impatient, but they never protest. There are so many gowns and all of them—though Katniss and I never say it out loud—look far too much like the Capitol for our liking. Katniss sighs in exasperation.

"Well, I'm sorry!" Venia—the one whose face morphed into my mom's—shrugs. "But you and Miss Cresta keep rejecting ever dress we try! We're running out of options here!"

The dress I'm wearing is far too flamboyant for anything in District 13. With layer upon layer of fabric and swooning silver flowers embroidered down the sides, it practically screams the Capitol. I feel like I'm physically weighed down from the fabric and am in danger of being crushed on my wedding day.

"I have an idea," Katniss says. "Hold up your arms, Annie."

I raise them up. Katniss gently fingers the bottom of the dress, which is so long that it drapes across the floor. She meticulously separates the fabrics and helps me peel the outer layer off. The dress feels a lot smaller, what with all the extra fabric gone.

Katniss sizes me up. "I like it," she decides. "It matches your eyes."

I turn to the mirror. The new dress is basically the under-slip of the real dress, but it's still ridiculously beautiful. Somehow, the thin fabric is transformed so that it looks like I'm standing in ocean waves, cascading down my legs, rather than an actual dress. It is very simple compared to the other dresses. Immediately, it is my favorite.

"I wore this in District 5," she says.

"Thank you," I say to Katniss.

"Are you sure?" Venia asks reluctantly. "I liked the teal one—"

"I think this looks perfect, Annie," Katniss interjects.

I agree and Katniss' prep teams faces fall. I feel a tiny bit bad for them, so I ask them to choose some jewelry for me to wear. Everything they choose involves pearls inlaid with gold. They find me some nice abalone earrings that remind me of home.

We shovel through Peeta's dresser next to find a suit for Finnick. Most of the suits look identical to my inexperienced eyes; however, the prep team "oohs" and "ahhs" over the shiny material. We grab several, hoping one of them will fit Finnick, who is much taller than Peeta.

The hovercraft ride is shorter on the way back because I know my sanctuary will be waiting for me the moment we get back. I'm proven right.

As soon as the hovercraft pulls into sight of District 13, I see him, hands tucked neatly into the pocket of his pants. He is pacing back and forth. The guards from 13 are watching him stoically, probably waiting to see if he will do anything that will mark him as crazy.

I don't wait for the pilots to open the doors. I yank the closest door open and hop out.

I almost slip, but Finnick catches me.

For a moment we don't say anything. We just stare into each other's eyes, sizing each other up, triple checking that everything is okay.

I hear Katniss clear her throat. "Um, blocking the exit could be hazardous."

Finnick chuckles. "Oh, alright," he says, good-naturedly pulling me out of the way so Katniss can jump out. He turns back to me. "Did you get a nice dress, darling?"

I nod. "It's very beautiful."

"Just like you," he whispers. "Thank you Katniss." He says this without looking away from me and Katniss rolls her eyes. A smile plays at her lips.

"No problem, Finnick. See you later, Annie."

Finnick releases all of me but my hand. The dining hall is nearly empty by the time we arrive. Finnick wants to hear all about the trip to District 12, since we forbade him from coming. I tell him about the wreckage and the dresses, editing out my little flash-out on the way there.

 _Tell him!_ Holley urges, but I ignore her.

 _Yeah, then maybe he'll decide that you really are crazy and leave!_ Thursday adds.

 _No. He doesn't want to leave!_ Holley replied, bitterly.

 _Yes he does!_

 _NO! He_ doesn't!

 _YES HE DOES!_

Finnick says something, but I can't hear him over Holley and Thursday's chatter.

"What?" I ask distractedly.

"You're not telling me everything," Finnick says, gently removes my hands from my ears and folds them in his own. I hadn't even realized I was covering them up. "Shh." Finnick's hand trails down my cheek. "Come back to me, Annie."

I do. I come back as much as I can, feeling the reassuring pressure of his fingers beneath mine.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Don't be."

"I had… a flashback on the plane," I say slowly. I have never really disclosed everything that happened at the Capitol because I'm afraid it will make him feel guilty… or sad.

Finnick's eyes narrow. Suddenly, I'm scared that he's going to confront me about memories that I don't want to face. Instead, he asks very carefully, "Are you alright now?"

"Yes," I say, relieved. "I am now." I kiss him lightly on the top of the nose. "What did you do while I was gone?" I ask, eager to change the subject.

"Beetee made me a new trident," Finnick says. He flashes me a dazzling smile that takes my breath away. "Do you see it?"

"Of course, I love watching you throw around big spears," I joke. But it's true. Watching Finnick play around with his little tridents reminds me of when he used to fish with Dash and Rime back in District 4. It feels like another lifetime. Of course, women don't usually do the actual fishing; my mother, sister, and I used to work in the factories, cutting, cleaning, and sorting the food. Sometimes I would go diving for abalone or oysters—the treasures of the sea—or sit on the pier, waiting for my dad to come home.

Finnick always fished with the other young boys close to the pier, not as far out as the men. I would try to focus on cleaning off the shells in my pockets or polishing the pearls I found; anything that would keep me from stealing glances from the gorgeous figure bobbing above the waves, wielding a trident into the shallow waves. Of course, I didn't have to worry about Finnick-distractions once he got pulled into the Hunger Games. He didn't come home to visit often after he won.

Finnick stands up, sliding an arm around my waist. His arm is reassuring as the elevator slowly sinks deeper and deeper into the ground, until I'm afraid the surface will cave in on us. At last, we reach the defense floor. There's a guard blocking the door, but he recognizes Finnick, who pushes through the door, nonchalantly, as if he owns the place.

The huge room is empty, except for a nerdy old man in a wheelchair in the far room. Perhaps he is deaf or hard of hearing because he doesn't look up as Finnick neatly slams the great metal door closed. He just keeps fiddling with some little wires.

"Hey, Beetee," Finnick calls out in greeting.

Beetee pushes his glasses up his nose. "Oh, hello, Finnick… Miss Cresta…" he wheezes.

"Mrs. Odair… soon to be," Finnick murmurs in my ear. He raises his voice. "I just wanted to show Annie my new trident."

"Sure, sure, it's right over there." Beetee points to a cabinet, snorting into a handkerchief in excitement.

"Thanks." Finnick tugs me over to the cabinet with a touch-lock, something I've only seen in the Capitol. He shows me how to press the numbers. 5-6-8-3. My fingers slip and fumble the first time, so I have to repeat the sequence. 5-6-8-3. There is a metallic click and the door falls open. The cabinet contains several fancy-looking bows and one gleaming, golden trident, which literally towers above my head.

Finnick's eyes sparkle as he takes it out, looking more like a boy with a new toy, than a full grown man with a weapon.

"Touch it," he says. I hesitantly reach out to smooth my hand over the trident. The golden metal vibrates in my hand.

"What's it made of?" I ask.

"No idea." He shrugs, weighing it in the palm of his hand.

"Is it heavy?"

"Mm, not really. Here."

I swallow when Finnick extends it to me. But I reach out both hands anyway, palms up.

 _Clang._

The sound echoes through the empty room and the two-ton trident slips through my fingers and onto the floor. So, I suppose it wasn't two tons, but the sheer weight surprised me so much, I couldn't keep a hold of it.

"Sorry," I squeak. Finnick only laughs. I bite my lip. "I hope I didn't dent it or anything…"

"Of course not," he says. "Like anyone could try to put a dent in this thing. Watch."

Finnick back up a few steps away from me and chucks the trident across the room. It soars a good fifteen yards, before impaling a target solidly in the center. When I tear my eyes away from the target, he's not even looking at his success. He seems much too preoccupied sizing up my own open-mouthed expression of incredulity.

"Wow," I finally say. "You're…" I can't seem to find the right words. "Perfect."

Finnick laughs, good-naturedly, gently taking me in his arms. "Only when you're around. Other times, I think I'm the furthest thing from perfection… just ask the doctors." He slides one finger under my chin, tilting my face up to meet his.

As if _I_ could believe _that_. I lock my fingers behind his neck, letting him pull me up to stand on the tops of his feet, so that he doesn't have to crane down so far to reach me.

Yes. I definitely think "perfection" is an appropriate word for this situation.

That is, until Beetee connects two live wires that spark in his hand. He jumps in surprise, choking a little on his snort, and then hacking it back up with a cough. Loose papers are flying across the floor by the time I turn.

"Are you alright, Beetee?" I ask, bending down to retrieve the closest papers.

"Oh, yes, quite alright," Beetee wheezes, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "Just made some new discovery about circuitous motility."

I have no idea what that means, but Beetee looks excited enough.

Finnick hands the remainder of the papers to him.

Beetee nods gratefully. "Just remember to put that trident back in its case when you're done, Finnick. Don't want to leave it lying around. In the wrong hands, that could be seriously dangerous."

I watched Finnick throw around his trident some more. I sit a little ways back on top of a mock defense wall, sure that I was gazing at some picturesque god from another world, not the man I was going to marry.

 _Maybe you are._

I jump.

 _Scared you, didn't I?_ Marina jokes.

I don't answer.

 _What? Not talking to me today, Annie? Not talking to your own cousin?_

I jerk my head back and forth very quickly.

 _Well, you're going to have to sooner or later. I don't have much patience._

I bite my lip. I don't want to answer. I don't want to freak Beetee out. I just want to watch Finnick. He tosses the trident into another target. A cloud of dust explodes when it finds its mark. Finnick looks up for my approval, grinning. I smile back easily and hold up ten fingers. Ten fingers means perfect. Five means moderate. One means poor. It was a game we used to play in school. I have never held up only one hand.

 _You know, I don't think this wedding is a good idea. What do you think, Annie?_

I want to say that I think they should all stop harassing me, but I don't. I stay quiet, determined to play good, folding my hands in my lap.

 _Not going to end well,_ Marina teases in her little sing-song voice. _Believe me, I know. You know how many failed relationships I've seen?_

Oh, right. Marina was only too pretty for all the boys in District 4.

 _Too many,_ Marina answers herself. _And I can already tell this is going to be a doozy._

Finnick walks over, his beautiful forehead shining with perspiration. I'd imagine if we were back home right now, he would suggest we go for a swim. Unfortunately, water seems quite far away right now.

Instead he says, "Let me just put this away and we can go back to your room."

"Okay," I say eagerly.

 _Sooner or later,_ Marina repeats. Her voice echoes dizzily in my head.

Finnick puts the trident back in its case and we bid goodbye to Beetee. He waves, snorting darkly into his handkerchief, and turns back to the computer screen.

Finnick takes my hand, pulling me through the maze of District 4. He knows it much better than I do from wandering aimlessly down the hallways.

"What are we doing now?" I ask.

"I figured we could just spend some time together… unless you have a better idea."

"Nope," I say so quickly that he laughs. "That sounds perfect."

I am perfectly content to spend the rest of the afternoon in Finnick's arms—my own little piece of heaven. I don't have to listen to voices I don't want to hear. They are only two eager to stay silent when Finnick has my attention. I don't have to try to be anyone besides myself. Finnick knows me too well for me to try anything of that nature.

We don't have to be two refugees. Or two victors. We're just two people; two people who have found a place in the middle of a no-man's land. The rest of the world seems very distant in our place. There is no war or death or destruction. I still have a family. A good one, that loves me. I don't feel torn apart and sewn back together. I just feel… whole, like there were never any tears in the first place.

In our place there is light from Finnick's eyes.

There is love from his heart.

There is life.

And life goes on.

It's more than endurable.


	7. Chapter 7

There is a slight knock on the door. I used to have to cross through several rooms to reach the front door. In our new house it only takes me a few large strides.

"Hello?" I say, opening the door.

"Oh. Hi, Annie." The boy with the bronze hair stands awkwardly on the porch. In the few months that have elapsed since his last visit, he has grown old. No, he is still one of the most handsome sixteen year-old youths I've seen, but there is something in his countenance that bears the scars of maturity and experience and above all, an ancient sadness.

"I wasn't sure if this was your house," he says after a moment. "You rebuilt it."

There's a familiar lump in my throat that feels like a turbine snail has been wedged down my throat.

"Yes, there was an accident," I recite evenly. It was a line I have had to practice many times now.

"Oh—oh, I see." Finnick does a weird glance around him, taking in all of the surroundings with wide eyes.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yeah… yeah, I'm alright. I was just… Sorry, Annie," he chuckles massaging his temples with a hand. "I'm feeling a bit off today."

"You can come inside," I offer to be polite. "I can make some tea and coffee."

"Nah, it's alright. I was hoping to hang out with Dash, maybe catch some waves."

"Oh." I let out a breath slowly, like divers do in the ocean. "Oh." Divers let out the breath little by little… and then they begin to sink as the air in their lungs is slowly depleted. That's what I feel like right now. I am sinking into the darkening ocean, the diffracted light from the surface growing smaller and smaller as I am pulled downward.

Finnick is looking at me, expectantly.

"Dash is… There was…"

"There was what, Annie?" Finnick has that wild look about him again. I can see the whites all the way around those two green eyes.

"He—he—" I stutter. I'm sinking faster and there is nothing to pull me up to the surface. I wouldn't be surprised if my feet melted into the porch right now. "There was an accident… a fire." I suppress a sob. "They're all gone."

" _They_?" Finnick repeats. "There's more?"

"Dash," I close my eyes. "Dad a-and Marina and Uncle Tuss and R-Rime… everyone who was in the—"

Finnick suddenly grabs me in a hug and holds me to him.

I start to cry. I don't have anyone left except my mom and she doesn't hug me anymore. Since the fire, she has buried herself in work, leaving early for the fish factories and coming home late because she says we need the extra income without Dad here. She doesn't want to talk to me. She brings in food after work, but often stays outside on the porch until she thinks I'm asleep. She looks out to the black sea as the sun sets. I don't know why.

I _do_ know that it is lonely.

This is the first human interaction I feel like I've had in a long time.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Finnick keeps on repeating as he hugs me. His voice is thick; he is holding back tears as well.

I don't know what he means, but I just keep on weeping.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, it ends. Finnick steps away from the porch, his hands shaking slightly.

"I—I have to go. I—I'm so… so sorry." He turns on his heels and runs away, streaking through the crowds of fisherman and crates of nets and today's catch.

I don't see him again for weeks.

When he does turn up again, he looks more composed… His hair is combed back neatly, although it has been windblown on the walk here. He wears a fresh t-shirt and board-shorts. In his hands, he's carrying an enormous crate and several bulging bags are hanging from his arms. He can't even raise a hand to knock the door; he has to kick it with his foot.

"Do you need some help?" I ask immediately.

"No, I'm okay. Can I come in?"

"Sure," I say slowly, holding the door open wide. He has to squeeze sideways to fit in.

He sets the crate and bags on the floor and starts unloading them wordlessly.

He has brought food… lots of it. Loaves of bread with District 4's signature seaweed hue, cartons of milk, bags of carrots and garnished apples, a rare delicacy of cheese, dried strips of meat, boxes of nuts and seeds, and several packages of something called chocolate. It's all too much for the small table and Finnick has to lay some of the bags on the floor.

"Will you put these in the cool box?" he says, handing me the milk cartons.

"What is all this for?" I finally ask afterward.

Finnick looks taken aback, as if it his intentions had been obvious the entire time. "Well, your dad's not here to supply the usual income, right?"

"Right," I answer.

"I thought it was the least I could do to contribute. I don't need all this food in the Victor's Village anyway."

"Well, that's…" I struggle to find words conveying enough gratitude. "Generous. Mom will be really happy. She has to spend most of the money paying back the money for the house. This is great! Thank you!" I gesture to the mass of grocery overflowing on the table.

Finnick breaks the first smile I've seen since Dash passed away.

"My pleasure," he says. "See you around, Annie."

Then he leaves abruptly.

Thus begins our cycle.

At the beginning of every week Finnick walks the two miles from the Victor's Village to our little house by the fishing wharfs, carrying an enormity of imported goods and dishes from the Capitol and various districts. He is as strong as some of the most experienced fishermen, yet it never fails to amaze me that he can carry such a weighted load every week. Sometimes I run out to meet him halfway and I do my best to carry a few bags for him.

We squeeze through the front door and then set about unloading it in the main room of my tiny house. Mom is never there, but I think she appreciates all that Finnick does for us. When she comes into the house and peeks into the cool box on late nights, I see some of the lines of worry that so often mar her countenance disappear a little. She doesn't know how to thank him, so she keeps out of the house where she will never be confronted with such a situation.

Sometimes Finnick stays for an hour or so, but usually he wheels himself out of the house within a few minutes of arriving, saying he's going for a swim or heading back to the Victor's Village. I like when he comes, even if he's only acting as a delivery boy, for he brings not only groceries, but human conversation, something I am in dire need of.

However, I think the memories of Dash make him not want to linger. I respect that. I feel the same way every day.

Autumn passes and then winter.

I tell Finnick that he doesn't have to walk the two miles to my house in cold weather, but he does every week unfailingly. In the wind. In the rain. When there is ice on the fishing docks.

One day he shows up with extra blankets and a metal heater that can store hot coals. Our fireplace isn't as big as it used to be and it gets chilly at night. In fact, the house, which was once a towering two-story building, has been reduced to a one bed-room/one living room cottage. I remember mentioning this once.

I tell him to take them back because he'll be cold at the Victor's Village without them.

He shakes his head and says that he won't be cold.

I say thank you. Then he leaves. As usual.

It is the easiest winter of my life. And also the loneliest without my family.

Spring bounds forward with swells of fish. The fishermen leave every morning at sunrise and return at sunset, their nets bulging with catches and their boats heaving into the harbor like pregnant ladies ready to deliver. People swarm over the wharfs like ants, boxing lobsters and other shellfish, packing in sardines en masse. I watch them from my window. My mother is busier than ever in the factories.

She only comes home, as she ever does, on the last day of the week. That's when she takes her walk around District 4's coast. Sometimes I tag along, but she is so absorbed in her thoughts and neither of us makes a very good companion.

I tend to busy myself at home. I swim a lot. I dive for clams and oysters to contribute to the exports and earn a little money myself.

"You've been busy," Finnick observes one day, glancing at the buckets of clams I've scavenged from beneath the docks.

"Yeah," I say. "I try."

He unloads some corn bread and muffins onto the counter. "That's good… keeping busy. I should try more of that myself."

"I thought living in the Victor's Village, you would have very busy days."

Finnick shrugs. "It's boring most days."

"What do you do?"

"Not much." He spreads some leafy vegetables on the table, along with some purple bulbs I think are called egg-plants.

I help Finnick unload the rest of the goods. There is even more than usual today.

"Oh, you brought more chocolate!" I say excitedly, when I dig into the bottom of one of the bags and fish the wrappers out.

He flashes me one of his few smiles that isn't forced. "I know you like that stuff."

"Thanks, Finnick."

We finish and Finnick gathers up the empty bags into the crate. He is about to go, but before I can stop myself, I say, "Wait! I have something for you!"

He pauses. "For me?"

"Yes." I grab the crate from him and set it on the floor. "I know something that will keep you busy!"

I run to the bedroom and thrust the closet doors apart. They get a little jammed, but I manage to make enough room to retrieve the nearly finished board Dash had been crafting the night he died. He had left it outside and it must have been far enough away from the flames that when my mother and I picked through the debris the next day, we found it hidden beneath some smoking palm fronds and ashes. We have barely looked at it since.

"No," Finnick says immediately when he sees the board.

"Please, Finnick!" I say. "You bring us food every single week! You can at least take this as a thank you gift!"

He shakes his head. "You should keep it."

"But you were his best friend! He loved boarding with you. I don't even know how to ride it!"

"Then I'll teach you." He pushes it back into my hands and before I can protest, he runs out the door with a quick, "Go change! I'll meet you by the sand dunes!"

I change quickly into my board shorts and bathing suit I use for collecting shellfish. They're in tatters because even with Finnick constantly helping to support me and my mother, we don't have enough money to buy a nice, new expensive suit. I don't care though. They work just fine.

Finnick's already there in his swim shorts. They must be from the Capitol by the way they're perfectly tailored and don't seem very practical for spearfishing. I hand him the board shyly. He runs his fingers along the edges of it and then down on the smooth, polished surface.

When he looks up, his eyes are wet with tears. He purses his lips in a half smile.

"Dash was the best boarder in our class at school. Did you know that?" Finnick asks.

I shake my head.

"It's not hard. Do you have good balance?"

"Um, I think so?"

"You'll be fine, then."

We swim out through the breakers—Finnick turtles the board under the big ones—until we reach a lull. He shows me how to stand on the board when the first wave comes. Immediately the nose dips and I wipe out. I come up gasping with hair plastered over half of my face, and my expression must be baffled because Finnick can't help but chuckle.

I snicker. "Can you do better?" I challenge.

Finnick scoffs, grabs the board, and catches a wave, sliding down its face with an inexplicable grace.

I try not to look too impressed.

"You're turn." He offers me the board again. "You'll get it soon."

He holds my tail as the next set rolls in and releases it just as the white water crashes over me. I squeeze my eyes shut as water cascades down my forehead.

"Stand up, Annie!" Finnick hollers over the roar of the waves.

"What?!" I open my eyes. I'm moving! My face is pressed to the board, only inches from the glistening surface of the water which slides beneath me as if I am a gull flying over the sea. I quickly remember how to push myself into a standing position. In no time, I am boarding.

"I'm doing it!" I yell. Finnick whoops loudly.

Me 'doing it' ends up only lasting for a few seconds before the wave evens out and crashes onto the sandbar. Even so, I'm tremendously proud of myself and I can't stop smiling. We take turns standing up on waves. I say 'standing up' because Finnick decides not to count the waves where I fall off. For every four he helps me kick into, he grabs one. He likes showing off his boarding skills.

"Dash taught me how to do this one!" he cries and does an amazing trick where he twists the board at the top of the wave, sending a flurry of spray into the air. "That was for you, buddy!"

I clap my hands, watching the little droplet spiral and glint in the sunlight.

Hours pass by. They feel like minutes. This is the most fun I have had in over a year. We stay out boarding until the last rays of sunlight kiss the horizon.

Finnick finally says, "You should get home."

"We should do this again sometime," I reply. I hand him the board. "Keep it. It's a present."

"No, you'll enjoy it more than I will," he says gently. "You can ride it on your own now. Besides… I have to leave tomorrow… for the Capitol."

"Oh," I say. "Isn't the Hunger Games in a few weeks?"

"Yes, but I was asked to visit the Capitol and finish some jobs I need to get done first. I'll be back for the Reaping."

I don't know much about what veteran victors do every year, so I don't prod further.

"Have… have fun," I say lamely.

"I'll try," he mutters bitterly. I can usually tell when Finnick is not in the mood for talking. His face is carefully glazed over, as if he is determined to wipe clean any expressions that might convey the tiniest hint of emotion. Now is one of those times. "See you, Annie."

He waves and trots off into the darkness. I walk home alone.

"How do I look?" Finnick asks. He mimics the girly twirl we've both seen Katniss do on Capitol television.

"Are you the boy on fire now?" I laugh. He's wearing the newly tailored suit that once belonged to Peeta Mellark. It was several inches too short at first, but Venia has done a superb job extending the sleeves and legs.

That's all he's wearing actually. No undershirt or tie.

"Is that what you're going to wear?" I smirk. I press my hands to his bare chest, feeling the ripples of muscle beneath my palms.

"If it pleases you, my dear," he says, striking a ridiculous pose that makes me laugh.

"We could get married in bathrobes and I would still be pleased," I say truthfully. "I'm just so happy."

Finnick's face is lit up like a bioluminescent tide in the night when I meet his eyes again. "So am I," is all he can manage.

Someone bangs on the door. Venia shouts through the wood, "Well? How does it look in there?"

"Beautiful from where I'm standing," Finnick answers, tracing his fingers from my hairline to the curve of my chin.

"I think she meant the suit, Fin."

Venia clears her throat. "Come, come now, children. Just open the door and let me see already."

Finnick flicks the door open with one hand, not taking his eyes off of me, though I am dressed in nothing more than the ordinary grey District 13 attire.

"Oh, it looks marvelous!" Venia, along with Flavius and Octavia, flood into the room, admiring Venia's tailoring job.

"I still cannot believe you helped make Finnick Odair's wedding suit," Octavia says, dabbing her green-lidded eyes. "If only we were back home. You would have achieved such fame."

"Thank you, Venia," Finnick says humbly. "It looks wonderful."


	8. Chapter 8

We're sitting at the table. I am, at least.

Mom leans on the counter a few feet away and takes a long sip from her tea, gazing out of the window. It is still early morning. The marine layer rolls with the gentle breeze over the sand dunes and through the sails of the first boats pushing away from their moorings.

I take my spoon from my cup of tea and draw little designs on the table with the water. A circle. A line. I wipe my finger through and the shapes smudge into one mash of droplets.

"Don't do that, Annie," Mom says, not meeting my gaze.

"It's just water," I mutter.

She takes another sip from her tea. We stare out the window together. More fishermen are hopping into their boats. They swing the nets onto their backs, throwing empty crates from the docks to the boats, loading lobster traps by the dozen into the boats' storage units.

Mom is sick today. She went to sleep with a cough last night. She told me that she would be better by morning and planned on returning to work by dawn as she always did, but was forced to retract her words after being seized with a coughing fit for the fifth time in the middle of the night.

"You know, it's kind of nice when you stay home," I observe after a moment.

"Yes," Mom murmurs, but I'm left unsure of whether she even hears me or is simply answering out of habit.

"Since you're home," I try again. "Maybe could go… visit the cemetery?"

If these words convey any meaning to her, it doesn't show; she just looks out sadly past the waves at something far in the distance that I can't see.

"Not today, Annie."

"But it's been over a year since the fire. And we haven't gone once since then!" I complain. "I _want_ to go."

"You may go if you'd like," she says evenly.

I glare at her. Her face is placid, emotionless as the sea.

"But… but this is something we have to do together! You and me… we need to honor our family. We need to make sure they're not just forgotten… Dad and Dash and Uncle Tuss—"

"What did I just say?" she cuts me off. "Now is not the day. I'm not feeling well." My mother cups her face in her palm and squeezes her eyes closed.

"What does that have to do with it?" I say. "Even when you're well, you won't even talk to me about them!"

"Annie, sometimes it is best if we do try and forget about these things."

"These things?" I repeat in horror. " _These things_ are your son and your husband. They're people in our family!"

"Let's not talk about this anymore. Fetch me some headache pills, will you?"

"I don't understand why you won't talk to me anymore!" I say, pushing my chair away from the table angrily. "You never come inside, you avoid me, you ignore me!"

"Annie, we're done."

But I can't. It's like the angry words, so pressurized with hatred and grief, have been trapped inside a dam, and once they begin to spill out, they cannot stop.

"It's like you wish I don't even exist sometimes! You go on pretending that people we loved are nothing more than names—names that you tell me not to mention! You lock yourself away from people—you lock me away from you—and I can't do this anymore! I can't—"

"Then don't!" Mom's teacup crashes against the countertop as she slams it down. Immediately she is in my face, grabbing one of my wrists in her stern, bony grasp as if I were nothing more than a rag doll.

"I said we were done with this conversation," she hisses. "I don't want to hear you mention the fire anymore under this roof, do you understand? Sometimes it is better if we _try to forget_."

I feel my eyes burn with red hot tears. "I just don't want Dash to be forgotten," I whisper, my voice thick with sadness.

She drops my wrist.

"Please," she says, carefully placing her teacup in the sink, though her hands are visibly shaking. "Go find something to do. I would like to be alone."

Alone. That's all she and I will ever be.

I can't stand this house anymore. It reeks too much of loneliness. It used to smell like bonfires from late nights of singing outdoors together and watching the boys board until it got too dark. It used to smell of saltwater from splashing in the surf and marveling in late-night bioluminescent tides.

Now the pungent odor of the incense Mom uses to cure her headaches wafts through our cold two-rooms like sickening perfume.

Without another word, I turn and bolt out of the house.

I run, though I am in nothing more than sandals, through the people milling about for the first fishing lure trades of the day, dodging the empty barrels that men and young boys are loading into their boats, skirting around several disheveled families who are forced to sleep on the sidewalk where they are constantly dusted by the sea spray. I run through the town square where an enormous statue of a man with a trident was erected when District 4 was first established and then through the rows and rows of piers where the larger fish are brought in. I sprint past the Victor's Village and the salt marshes.

I run and run until I can no longer breathe.

Then I walk the rest of the way to the cemetery.

I trace my hand over the peeling white picket fence and finger the words engraved into the rusty sign that designates this meadow: DISTRICT 4 CEMETERY.

The cemetery spans over an enormous meadow enclosed by a bleached white fence. Since "Cresta" is at the beginning of the alphabet, I have to walk past the many neatly lined rows of identical metal placards to reach the side where my family is buried.

Most of the graves are ordinary citizens. An ordinary citizen gets a placard about as big as my hand labeled with his or her name and lifespan. A higher class or political citizen, like the mayor, gets a slightly raised headstone with the same information, as well as the fishing symbol of servitude to District 4. The placards are clustered together, the cemetery being able to accommodate so many people. Some bodies have to be laid on top of each other, in which case their placards are aligned vertically.

DASH CRESTA: 17 YEARS, the card to the farthest left reads. I walk slowly down the aisle, whispering the name of each person in my family that is now gone. Even my grandparents have found their way into the cemetery.

I wonder if my family members are enjoying themselves—if they are together… wherever it is they are.

Because I left in such a hurry, I don't have any shells—it is custom in District 4 to place a shell upon a loved one's grave each time you visit—so I simply tell the silence, "I love you all."

I gaze down sadly at the graves. There is one shell at the head of each that my mother and I placed there the day they were buried over a year ago. The grass has grown around the shells, almost masking them completely.

 _Sometimes it is better if we try to forget._ Mom's words ring in my head as I walk away.

But how to forget when their absence has so clearly severed my family? Their deaths are as prominent to me as the stones into which their names are etched.

"Don't worry. You won't be forgotten… at least not by me," I murmur to them as I head back toward the entrance.

The cemetery is mostly empty, which would be expected on a usual work day. Only a few families have come to pay their respects as a body is laid in the ground somewhere towards the end of the alphabet. Someone kneels on the ground at the foot of a grave in the middle.

It takes me a moment to recognize him. And when I do, my spirit lifts ever so slightly.

"You're back," I say, approaching.

Finnick jumps to his feet when my voice cuts through the thick silence. I take a step back, afraid that I've startled him.

But he simply answers, "Yeah, I got back about a week ago."

I nod and we both stand there for a few moments, unsure of greeting to give.

"What are you doing in the cemetery?" I ask finally.

Finnick steps aside from the grave and I read the placard.

I put a hand to my mouth in shock.

"Your… your mom?" I manage. "When?"

"I think around the time the fire hit your house."

"I didn't know."

Finnick's family lived a few houses down from ours before he was crowned victor. Since he spent so much time at the Capitol, his mom, the only other person in his family—Dash had mentioned that his father ran away before Finnick was born—decided to stay at the old house instead of moving to the Victor's Village by herself. I had noticed that the house had been vacated for the past year, but had simply assumed that she had changed her mind and went to live with her son.

I suddenly feel a pang of guilt. "Why did you never tell me? You were always helping after my family died and I… I never ever asked about yours."

Finnick shrugs. "You had enough to worry about."

"I just…" I hand my head. "I didn't know you were alone all this time."

I steal another look at the grave. Although my family's graves are bare at the head, Finnick's mother's is clustered with too many shells for me to count. I cannot imagine the number of times he has visited in the last year—an orphaned boy walking through the misty graves to visit his mother's grave.

"What happened?" I whisper almost inaudibly because I don't want to upset him.

"There was… a boating accident," he says solemnly.

"I never heard anything."

"You wouldn't have. It was pretty far away."

He doesn't offer a further explanation, so I let the subject go flat.

Finnick tosses it back to me. "What are _you_ doing here?"

I sigh. "My mom didn't really want me in the house today. She said… she said she wanted some time alone." I don't want to say more. I'm afraid I might start crying again.

"So you're not going back home?"

"I don't think… I don't think she wants me to. It's… it's okay. I understand. I don't think she feels very well today. I can go take a walk on the beach or go diving for clams."

We walk back together and at the white entrance gate, I'm about to turn and begin the long walk home when Finnick pauses.

"Do you want to come back with me to the Victor's Village?" he says abruptly.

"What?" I say.

He drops his eyes. "I could use some company."

I examine his countenance. The laughing boy who Dash used to jump over the waves with now looks like he could sink into the sand and lie there forever. His eyes are dimmed as if a mist of exhaustion has forever clouded them.

They say that the arena changes people.

I think I'm finally beginning to understand what that means.

"Of course I'll come," I say.

I take Finnick's hand—I can't help wondering how many horrible murders this hand has inflicted on innocent children—and lead him away from the graveyard, as Mother used to lead me when I could barely walk.

"If you have better things to do, Annie… you don't have to come with me," he tells me as we walk.

"No, I want to." I smile. "I've never been to the Victor's Village before."

We walk to Finnick's house in silence for the most part; he is lost in his own thoughts and I am too shy to strike up a conversation.

I only ever passed by the Victor's Village, having never personally known anyone that survived the Hunger Games. There is a towering golden gate with two carved fish serving as handles that Finnick pushes open. Inside, the courtyard is lined with timeless brick houses with marble columns supporting their archways and doorframes. The walkway in front of each house is studded with polished abalone shells. All sorts of plants—hibiscus, gardenias, rosemary, and many I can't even name—poke out of the center planters, extending their faces toward the sun. In the middle of the courtyard bubbles a beautiful fountain with real fish inside.

Finnick leads me over to a house across the courtyard and holds the door open.

"Is this your place?" I ask.

"Yup."

It's simple, yet exquisite. Everything from the furniture to the drapes must have cost a fortune.

"It's dark in here," I notice. "Don't you ever open the windows?"

Finnick shrugs awkwardly and I catch some of his old humor creeping back into his eyes. "I'm a guy," he says, as if that's an excuse. "It's not something I give a lot of thought to."

"Well, it's so warm outside. It would be a shame not to."

I reach for the window, only to be stumped by the complicated latch that fastens it shut. We only have a simple deadbolt on our windows and doors at my house.

Finnick flicks the latch open with one finger, vainly trying to hide a grin.

"Thank you," I say, embarrassed. I throw the window open and the breeze and sunlight flood into the room, casting a warm glow on everything. The difference is so dramatic that I fly across the room, opening the rest of them. Each of the windows spans from floor to ceiling. An entire wall is facing the beach and I can see the blue waves crashing in the distance.

"That does make it better," observes Finnick.

"When I was little, we used to keep the windows open all summer long," I tell him. "So it would always smell like the sea inside. And mom would weave these cool baskets from fishing nets that had been thrown in the trash, and we would fill them with dirt and plant some of those pretty flowers that grow by the sand dunes in them. And then we'd hang them from the top of the windowsill, like this." I mimic looping the edge of a net around the top of the window.

"That sounds great," Finnick says. "Maybe we should do that here."

"I don't have any nets."

"Don't worry, I have plenty," he chuckles and bounds upstairs before I can get in another word. He is back in seconds, his arms loaded with a pile of nets so high, it is a wonder he can see over them all.

"What is all this?" I ask incredulously.

"I made them," he explains, untangling several and spreading them across the floor.

"By yourself?" I hold one up to my face to examine the hundreds of intricate knots looping the strands of rope together.

"Yeah, victors need something to do when they're not gorging themselves at the Capitol."

I laugh. "These are amazing!" I grasp one with shards of sea glass knotted into place at even intervals around the border. "Wow, no one in our class at school could ever master this pattern in school!" I grab another with a spiral-helix pattern of knots.

Finnick looks pleased. Quickly he ducks his head and shovels to the bottom of the pile until he finds a net that suits him and tosses it to me. "Will this work?"

I finger the material. It's made of very fine string—not like the normal fishing rope—and the stands are tied so closely together that light can barely find a space to shine through. "This is perfect," I remark, chucking it back at him.

"Good." He sets about fastening it into a basket shape. I watch over his shoulder, intrigued. His hands move so fast, tying one corner to the next and knotting the sides together, that my eyes can barely keep up.

"How do you do it so fast?" I ask timidly.

"Too much time on my hands," Finnick says. "You find it funny that Finnick Odair, winner of the 64th Annual Hunger Games and trident-wielding stud—" He flexes one of his arms menacingly. "—likes to say at home, knitting?"

His voice evolves into a high pitched old woman's voice. We both crack up.

"No, I think it's cool," I say between giggles. "I bet all the other victors are jealous."

"Ha, I doubt it. How does this look?" He holds up the finished basket for my approval.

"Hm." I pretend to size it up and down. "It's perfect."

We decide to walk down to the sand dunes by the beach where the indigenous flowers grow. We both agree the flowers that grow in District 4 are much prettier than the blindingly colorful ones the Capitol plants in the Victor's Village.

"I'm no genius when it comes to botany," Finnick says, scratching his head as I crane down to dig up some of the salt-ridden soil.

"I think this one's wild dandelion," I say, pulling up some roots embedded in the dirt. "And these ones are the mermaid's blossoms… or maybe these ones are." I falter.

"Ah, they're all the same to me," Finnick says indifferently.

He holds the net basket taunt and I stuff as much dirt in as I can. I show him how to insert the flowers into the soil and in no time the basket is overflowing with life.

When we return to the house, Finnick stands onto the window sill and fastens the loose ends of the basket to opposite sides of the window frame. It dangles from the window, rocking ever so slightly, as if it were lulling a baby to sleep.

"Wow, I should really fire those Victor idiots and hire you as my interior designer," he says, jumping down and high-fiving me.

Finnick tells me about a ridiculous old Capitol lady, wearing a hat with a real bear's head on it that flashed and made weird growling noises when a button was pushed, who came to put the furniture in place. We sit cross-legged on a sofa next to the window and eat toasted sandwiches and a weird drink that fizzles in your mouth. I've never had anything like it before, but it's delicious.

Finnick's funny—I'll give him that—when he's not morbidly depressed, and though I usually take some time warming up to people, before long I find myself laughing with him. I can see why he was my brother's best friend. Dash liked to laugh.

We don't talk about anything in particular. The worst jokes we've heard. What we want to do when we're old and white-haired. Pet peeves. Funny childhood stories: the time I tried to take home a dead fish as a pet because I thought I could save its life, the time Finnick ran into a screen gate in the fishermen's market and broke his nose.

"Your poor fish," Finnick remarks.

"Your poor nose," I throw back at him.

I don't remember smiling in a while and the wonderful aching of my cheeks starts to come back to me.

And after what feels like only a few hours, the day is done, the sun is setting quite suddenly, and Finnick is offering to walk me home.

"That's okay," I decline politely, although I wish we could just keep talking for another day entirely. Finnick was right; we were both in dire need for some company. "I don't want to make you walk all that way."

"I'll be fine," says Finnick. "Besides, I don't think you could make it halfway there carrying all this stuff."

Of course. He hasn't forgotten about his usual deliveries.

I scoff. "I could carry them more than halfway!"

"With those little arms?" Finnick teases, leading the way with the crate full of groceries.

I grab four bags off the top of his load and hop off the porch to join him as we walk back to my house.

By the time we reach the little cottage, I'm sweating, exhausted by the hot summer air, and trying to ignore Finnick's complete I-told-you-so smirk.

"You know," he begins gently as we unload the food in the storing boxes my mom and I had to develop last year to accommodate all of Finnick's gifts. "If you're ever kicked out of the house again… of if you're just bored, you can come over again."

"Sure," I agree. "It was fun."

"It's not like I'm busy," Finnick goes on. "All I do is sleep, eat, swim, make nets—real taxing work."

I snicker. "I'm sure."

In truth, I cannot wait to do this again. What began as a curse has turned into a blessing.

However, it is months until I see him again… besides his usual deliveries of food to the front porch, which often happen after I've gone to school.

In my own defense, I had a valid excuse. The weeks become so busy, I can barely keep track of them.

School resumes at the end of the summer, when the days begin to get short again. It's different when I get back.

I never had that many friends before. Families in District 4 tend to stick together at socialization time and meal times. During lunch, the oldest schoolchildren and their younger siblings may leave to eat at home. Dash used to walk me home every day and we would eat lunch at the house with Marina and sometimes Tuss.

But now I have to stay at school because Dash is not there to walk me home and I am not old enough myself.

Everyone seems to know about the fire. The first few weeks of the school year, I got a few glances of pity and apologies for my loss. Eventually those subsided into general avoidance of eye contact. I think it scares them. No one is sure how the fire started in the first place, although the Peacekeepers claim it was some kind of leak underground.

I have a few friends, though… People will talk to me if I ask them a question, and who crack a smile if I pass them in the hallway. But I never talk to them when the school day is over. They walk home together in a group, and there doesn't seem to be room on the sidewalk to accommodate another person.

There are changes in my schedule, too. I'm fourteen now, so for the last few hours of every other day, the girls and the boys split up and leave the school buildings to prepare for future jobs. The boys go to the decks to practice sorting the fish, or some board the few docked vessels to try their hand at small fishing. The girls and I go to the nearby factory where my mom works and practice skinning and gutting the fish.

The smell is the worst. The first time we walked into the factory a few girls fainted. The odor of decaying fish is absorbed into the walls and wafts around the room once the building warms up, banging against your skull like a hammer.

We rotate around different stations each week. I suppose the best one is taking out the bones; it's the least dirty work. I sit there at a stool, surrounded by women with greying hair and concentrated brows, and pick out the tiny bones that my elders cannot see. The worst job is taking out the trash. At the end of each long table are enormous piles of scales and bones that never seem to shrink, although workers are constantly sweeping around the room, gathering up the trash into enormous bags. The rotting trash is then taken to what most people call the Valley of Scales, an enormous field of landfills, in which the useless parts of fish are dumped. I learned in history class, that fishermen used to dump the remains into the sea, but the water became so clouded with flesh that spear-fishers could barely see and stabbed each other by mistake, and it disturbed the ecosystem of fish eating their dead family members.

I walk home with my mother if she can get off of work early. We both reek of fish and I finally understand why she throws off her worker's uniform the minute she gets in the door.

Mom takes more and more days off. In the beginning, it was just a cough, then a stomach ache. One day she woke up and didn't want to get out of bed.

That scared me. Mother loves to get up at the crack of dawn.

Her friend at the factory gave us the rest of her pills from when her husband was ill. We don't know what they do exactly—since none of us is a doctor—but mom tries them and they help a little.

However, the pills only last so long. Before no time, we run out of pills and mom is sick again.

For the second time, she falls so ill she cannot get out of bed.

I run around the house frantically, bringing her cups of warm water and cool cloths, but nothing seems to relieve her malady. I beg the women at the factory for more medicine, but to no avail. She says she will be okay, that by tomorrow she will be up and at work, but I am having a hard time believing her when her voice sounds like it has been scratched out by barnacles.

Finally, she takes my hand and presses some folded slips of money in my hand.

"Annie, use this at the medicine counter at the Infirmary for me, will you? Do you know where that is?"

I swallow and nod, crumbling the money into my fist.

"Don't wrinkle it like that," Mother chastises, sitting up to smooth out my knuckles.

She releases my hand suddenly and begins to cough again. I quickly hand her a cold cloth and a glass of water, which she gulps down hastily.

"What should I ask them for?" I say, pocketing the leaflets.

Mother coughs into the crook of her arm.

"I'm not a doctor, Annie," is all she can manage between gasps of air.

"I know," I say flatly.

"Tell them what is wrong and ask for help… please, dear."

I nod and turn to leave.

"Annie!" Mother calls out weakly as I open the door. "Please don't go alone. Take one of your friends from school. It's not safe for a young girl! Promise me you won't go alone."

"I promise," I say quietly.

But once outside, my stomach plummets at the prospect of asking any of my classmates. I only ever talk to a handful of people. I have never called up anyone to do a favor for me before. In fact, I realize with a hint of desperation, that I don't even know where anyone else lives. Although our Community (the West-Side Com.) is relatively small compared to the other Communities in District 4, there are over a thousand families at my school. I have no idea who I would ask, and do not fancy the idea of trumping through the Community looking for a classmate to help me.

I don't know my neighbors either. Now that Mother and I live in a smaller house, we are surrounded by one or two-person families, many of which are elderly fishermen and their wives who can no longer work. At our old house, I could name all of the children for three blocks. There were so many of them and my brother was the most popular boy.

Thinking about Dash makes me remember that I could ask Finnick to come with me. He will probably agree to it if he realizes how weak my mother is.

I am not satisfied with my decision, but it is my only option… and time is dwindling. I am scared to leave the house only for a few minutes. I don't know what type of havoc the illness will wreak upon my mother's frail frame.

As I half walk-half jog to the Victor's Village, I mull over the motives behind that which my mother made me promise. Not safe for a young girl? I have never been to the Community's Infirmary before, so I am not quite sure what that means. There are plenty of places that are unsafe for a young girl: the boating docks, where a heavy lift could accidentally crush a child; the water channels next to the jetties, the riptides around which could sweep a soul out to sea before she had time to swallow a breath; the Southern beaches… but I don't see what could be that dangerous about an infirmary. A few needles and bandages, perhaps?

I feel guilty as I approach the golden gates to the Victor's Village. Maybe I should have visited Finnick again in the many weeks that have elapsed since our last encounter. I have not forgotten how agonizingly lonely it must be to live by oneself, even with all the comforts and luxury of being a victor, yet my newfound workload and, dare I admit it, diffidence have kept me away. Finnick is, well… intimidating. The youngest victor of the Hunger Games, the truest testimony of a survivor, a Capitol favorite… To be honest, I thought a few times about visiting him, but was at a loss as to how to introduce myself or strike up a conversation, perhaps fearing that he would think my coming an intrusion or a nuisance.

I push the thoughts away and the golden gates to the entrance. A misty marine layer coats the surface of the place in a whitish light. It is still early and the Village is silent for the most part. Only one of Finnick's neighbors, a middle aged woman with slightly greying hair, is tending to her garden pensively. She smiles at me and asks a quick, "How d'you do?" as I approach Finnick's mansion, next to hers.

"Are you here to visit Finnick?" she asks brightly, smoothing the soil around a vibrant batch of poppies.

I nod.

"Oh, wonderful. He is such a nice boy. It'll do him good to have some friends," she continues.

I recognize her as she bends over, muttering to herself about the insufferable weeds. She won many years ago, perhaps in the year that the Gamemakers froze the arena. I haven't heard much of her since—she is not big on the Capitol cameras like Finnick is—but apparently she has been here all along, basking in the peaceful rewards of a victor's life.

"Go on and knock," she urges me when I pause.

I do so, but no one answers.

Megs—I think that might be her name—chuckles. "He's probably sleeping. Go ahead and wake him up if the door's open. Laziness is a friend to no one."

"O-okay," I say quietly.

I press the door open, and find it unlocked.

"Finnick?" I try to call, but it comes out as a terrified whisper.

He is sleeping on the couch in the living room. I am pleased to spy the woven basket with the flowers we had made together still hanging from the South window. Finnick has been watering it. The flowers look vitalized, spilling out over the sides of the net basket.

I pad over to his side and clear my throat.

Nothing.

"Finnick?" I tentatively poke his shoulder with my index finger.

Finnick reacts suddenly and instinctively. He whirls around, catching my wrist in a vicelike grip, his eyes wide and crazed.

I gasp and nearly trip backwards in surprise.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" I say quickly.

Finnick's eyes adjust to the shock, the fervor dying in them as the seconds pass. He looks around, breathing heavily, seeming to scan the room for any danger, realizes he is still clenching my wrist, and drops it with an embarrassed apology.

"I'm not used to being surprised. I guess I'm still pretty… vigilant after the Games. Sorry if I hurt you."

"I'm okay," I breathe.

"I guess it's a good thing I don't sleep with my trident by my side anymore."

I let out a slightly horrified laugh. "I would have been a fish-ka-bob."

Finnick chuckles uneasily too. "You certainly would have."

We are quiet for a moment.

"Your neighbor said it would be okay if I came in," I explain. "I'm sorry, I wouldn't have woken you if it wasn't urgent."

Finnick brushes away my apologies. "Don't worry about it. What's wrong?"

I relay the situation to him as quickly as I can. His brow creases in concern when I tell him that my mom cannot get out of bed and how she is riddled with fits of coughing.

"She made me promise I wouldn't go by myself. She said I wasn't safe. I don't know… I've never been there before. But I was wondering if you would be okay… that is, if you would please…" I blush and look down. I hate asking people for help. Finnick of all people must have much more interesting things to do than accompany an old friend on her errands.

But Finnick simply says, "Let me get my coat" and is ready in five minutes to depart.

"Have you ever been here before?" I ask as we walk out of the Victor's Village.

"A few times," he grimaces.

"Is it bad?" I ask.

Finnick doesn't respond at first. Then he says quietly, "It's very sad."

I don't quite know what he means, and I don't want to further his suddenly disheartened spirit by inquiring further.

Outside the Victor's Village, Finnick takes me down a long road that eventually thins out into a dirt path. The scenery changes dramatically as we walk farther and farther from the superfluously elegant Village. The tall beach trees grow dispersed and the weedy flowers that always flourish on the sand dunes become scarce.

The smell hits me as the road starts to level off downhill.

"Oh, god," I retch, cupping my hand over my mouth and nose.

"Unpleasant, huh?"

Finnick reaches into his pocket and retrieves two pieces of cloth. He ties one around my head, so that it shields the bottom half of my face, and secures the other over his own.

"What is it?" I ask, horrified.

"It's the Valley of Scales," replies Finnick.

I've smelled dead fish before plenty of times in the factories… particularly when I get chosen to take out the garbage. But this stench… is unfathomable.

"The Valley of Scales?" I repeat with a frown.

Finnick nods. "They didn't teach you about it in school?"

I think. The name does sound familiar.

"I guess the name is somewhat of a colloquialism," Finnick explains. "In textbooks they call it a Designated Decomposition Space. You know, a DDS?"

"Oh," I say. Yes, a DDS. When the fish are delivered to the factories, they are always prepared before they are shipped off to other districts or the Capitol. Preparation ranges from simply wiping the salt off the scales, to completely skinning the fish, chopping off its head and fins, and dicing it into sushi-sized pieces. I hear the preparation for crustaceans is even messier with so many shells.

Anyway, those pieces of the animals that are rejected (like scales, bones, fins, etc.) are deposited into trash bins and placed outside of the factories in an airtight passageway, so as to prevent a bad smell. At the end of the week, the decaying material is removed and transported to the nearest Designated Decomposition Square, where it can decompose enough to turn into soil.

I have never been to a DDS because it is so far away from home.

Now I hope I will never have to return to one again.

"Welcome to the East Community's local DDS," Finnick announces, gesturing in front of us.

In the distance spans a maze of enormous, heaping piles of decaying sea food, a manmade mountain range of pure garbage. The material at the bottom of the sloping hills looks the oldest—some has already transitioned into soil—the rest at the top looks like it has only begun the initial process of biodegrading.

I try hard not to gag.

"It's a valley, see?" Finnick draws his finger along the perimeter and I can see how the ground slopes down on each side to form a concave valley. "That's why they put it here. The smell stays in one area."

"I would have never guessed," I say. "You can't smell a thing from the Victor's Village."

"The wind always blows inland."

"Where is the infirmary?" I inquire.

"This is the shortest way," Finnick tells me glumly. "We share it with two other communities because medical supplies are so expensive. The only short cut from our community is through the valley."

I swallow.

"If it bothers you, I'll get the medicine and you don't have to go," he offers.

"No," I quickly say. This is my errand, and I couldn't tolerate him trudging through the unbearable valley for my sake.

The smell worsens as we travel deeper into the valley. I am thankful it is a cold day. If it were hot outside, I fear this experience would be a hundred times worse.

My head is spinning by the time we pass the first few rows of rotting fish. Finnick and I have stopped talking. I think we are both trying desperately to keep our mouths closed, so as to not gag.

Before long, I see something that makes my stomach turn upside down.

A trio of men so filthy and bedraggled they almost blend in with their surroundings leans against one of the piles solemnly. Their cheeks are hollow and their skin looks so dry, I wouldn't be surprised if it peeled off in the sun. If I was still a little girl, I probably would have screamed, thinking them to be corpses that had reanimated. One of the men is missing a leg beneath is ripped pants. Another blows smoke out of a thin pipe.

"Keep your eyes down," Finnick breathes in my ear almost unintelligibly.

I drop my eyes from the horrifying sight of the decrepit human beings, but I cannot keep from peeking out of my peripherals as more begin to emerge.

They're subtle. A shift of clothing, a nudge to a neighbor, a cough from between wizened, cracked lips are the only indication that life is present. I cannot understand who—or what—these people are and why they have chosen to take refuge in this inhospitable sanctuary.

"Have some change to spare?" a voice croaks. An emaciated man with a thick scar forming a diagonal across his face peers up at us from beneath a makeshift shelter of a shirt lying over two beams. His eyes, red around the edges, bulge in hopefulness out of their sockets.

"No, I'm sorry," Finnick says.

"What 'cha talkin' 'bout, prutty boy?" Another man emerges from behind a pile. He wears nothing but an ill-fitted pair of faded shorts and limps when he walks. "I know yeh. Yer a Victor. Yah got some real gud money, ain't 'cha?"

"Keep walking," Finnick tells me quietly.

"I know you, too!"

"Ye've gotta help us, suh."

"Anything will help."

More of them are emerging slowly. Those who were sleeping are resurrected with the possibility of money. Shadow-like phantom begin pulling themselves up to sitting positions, moaning as their backs crack.

The man with the limp hobbles forward. "Jus' a little som'ing for us, and we'll let 'cha be on yer way."

"I'm sorry," Finnick says again, a little more forcefully, picking up pace. "We don't have anything for you."

I hear someone grunt a disbelieving laugh.

"Missus, you'd like to spare a bit of cash for a man in need, wouldn't you?" one of them asks me.

"I—" I begin.

"Oh, sure yeh do!" The limping man grabs my arm with uncanny speed, nearly dragging me to the ground. "How 'bout—"

"HEY!" Finnick reels back his fist and punches the man squarely in the face, sending him spiraling to the ground.

"Ay, lad! No need to get rowdy!" someone hollers.

Another yells, "You rich Victor scum! Can't even bear to show a little decency to your neighbors! Go suck one at the Capitol!"

A handful of filth hits Finnick in the back of the neck, speckling my face with drops of fish gore.

"Yah bastard!" gags the man who Finnick punched. His oily nose is dripping blood. "Yah filthy bastard!"

Finnick puts his arm around me protectively and sets off at a pace which I have to jog to keep up with, as more garbage begins to rain down on us from our filthy assailants.

The people are yelling at us, screaming insults. They hate the Capitol, which refuses to provide for them. They hate President Snow. They hate anyone who fraternizes with the Capitol—which I suppose includes their "prutty boy" Finnick. "Down with the bastards!" they cry. I see one man clutching his neck and sobbing, begging us for mercy and for money. I am tempted to reach into my pocket for anything to help him, but I remember my mother's life may rest on the medicine.

Finnick dutifully ignores them, although a dirty drop of waste is dripping down the side of his face from a parcel somebody chucked at us. It is almost akin to a tear.

The last person to confront us is a middle-aged woman at the edge of the valley, who is missing both of her legs and most of her teeth. She is swaddled in a nest of dirty sheets and nestles an infant in her thin lap.

"Anything to help us, sir?" she begs.

But Finnick only shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

By time we reach the infirmary, I can hardly breathe—whether from the stench or the ordeal, I cannot ascertain. My eyes are wet with tears.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Finnick says as we mount the steps to the white sterile facility, so brilliantly clean in juxtaposition to its surroundings.

"I don't understand," I pant. "What are those people doing out here?"

"They can't work. Their families can't provide for them, so they're starving. Some of them are injured, some of them are sick… I think most of them aren't mentally stable."

"I guess so," I sigh, untying the cloth from my face. "Is that why they stay close to the infirmary?"

"Probably," he says. "Also because anyone headed to get medicine has to have money. They're all beggars out there."

"Why doesn't the Capitol help them?"

Finnick shrugs. "No work, no pay. They're the undesirables… useless to the Capitol. The Peacemakers would kill them, but instead they let them take refuge in the valley, where they feed off the… the garbage."

I try not to vomit as the scent of the valley reverberates through my memory.

"But how—how can they get away with saying that stuff about President Snow and the Capitol?"

"Who's going to hear them?" Finnick retorts, his eyes narrowing suddenly in anger. "When everybody's too busy paying attention to whatever stupid new trend launches at the Capitol?"

His face is hardened as he holds the door open for me.

"We could help them," I offer.

"No, the Peacemakers wouldn't allow it. They let them live in the Valley, so long as they don't turn into a nuisance. But they would never tolerate us helping them… When you go to the Valley, you stay there for good. If the Peacekeepers found out that I was using my Hunger Games winnings to better the undesirables… well, I'd be in trouble."

"But that woman…" I begin.

"I know," Finnick murmurs. The angry defiance fades in his eyes and is replaced with that distinct sadness I sometimes detect in them—not real tears, but a strange awareness that supersedes anything a normal teenage boy should be capable of feeling.

"Let's go get your mom's medicine, okay?" he says evenly.

"Okay."

The hospital is bustling with activity. An infirmary that caters to three communities in District 4 is bound to be busy, after all. Nurses and doctors glide from room to room in a perpetual stream of medical attention and supplies.

Finnick and I sidle over to the waiting room, where we stand at the back of a long line designated "Non-Emergency Medical Care."

It's an organized chaos in the waiting room. People are pacing back and forth fretfully, arguing with the nurses, searching their pockets in despair, corralling their coughing children. Some are visibly ill and huddle by themselves in the corners. Others lean against the wall, exhausted by a long day of haggling overworked nurses for a few more pills.

One little girl with eight tiny braids that look like miniature octopus tentacles tugs on the edge of my shirt.

"Are you sick?" she asks me.

"No." I crouch down to speak to her, for she is so short. "I'm here to get medicine for my mom."

"Oh. My brother is sick," she says pointedly. "His head is really hot all the time and sometimes he throws up."

"I'm sorry," I say sympathetically.

"Do you have a brother?"

I shift on the balls of my feet uneasily. "No, I don't," I tell her after a moment.

Finnick eyes me carefully.

"I hope he feels better real soon," she says, speaking more to herself than to me. "I hope he doesn't get more sicker."

"I hope so too."

Her father calls and the little girl with the braids retreats to the counter, where her brother awaits, looking pallid and unwell.

We're next.

I approach the counter where a free nurse awaits us.

"What can I do for you?" she asks, scribbling the previous costumer's prescription on a piece of paper.

"My mother is sick," I tell her. "I don't know what is wrong, exactly. She hasn't been able to go to work as often as usual, and this morning she couldn't get out of bed. She's coughing a lot. She's really tired and weak."

The nurse is only half listening. A parade of stretchers is being carried in. It appears to be a boating accident.

"We're going to need backup in the front lobby. Entrance 2," the nurse says into a radio on her shirt. She turns back to me. "What were you saying, dear? A cough? A slight malady? I'm sorry, honey, I don't know what more to prescribe than a simple cough suppressant, which might help ease your mother's pain and get her back on her feet."

I nod. "If you think that's what's best."

"Alright…" she murmurs, scribbling a series of abbreviated characters on a pad. She tears out the sheet and hands it to me. "Take it over to the prescription counter across the hall. They'll have it ready for you right away."

"Thank you," I say, but she is already helping the next guest in line and does not hear me over the bustle of the waiting room.

I hand the slip of paper to the man behind the prescription counter in the next room. He returns with a white bottle of liquid, the Panem symbol stamped squarely onto the center.

"Busy day today! This is the only cough suppressant we have left," he explains. "It's more expensive, but much better quality. Should only be taken in times of pain or coughing attacks. Would you still like it?"

"Yes, please." I pull out my money.

"Eighty-five pecs."

Eighty-five? I swallow. What a fortune! Mother only gave me seventy. Seventy would be more than enough, she told me, to buy a simple cough medicine, even one that was quite costly.

Unwilling to let my mom down, I am about to beg, to offer my services in compensation for the fifteen pecs that I lack—surely they wouldn't be opposed to a little extra labor around here—or to vow that I will pay back the difference, when Finnick reaches swiftly into his coat pocket and slides a 100 pecuniam toward the man at the prescription counter.

"Thank you, sir." The man's eyes widen a little at such a handsome piece of currency. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"No, thank you."

I start to protest. I can't possibly accept this act of generosity when all I asked of Finnick was to accompany me to the infirmary.

But he cuts me off, handing me the bottle of cough suppressant and slipping the change into my hand before I have time to say more than an embarrassed, "I really can't—"

"Don't worry," he says, leading me out of the infirmary. "I'm sure you'll make it up to me."

"But how?"

Finnick ponders for a moment.

"You could visit more," he says slyly. "It doesn't have to be often. Just on the weekends, maybe, if you have a few spare hours. You could bring your mom too, if she's feeling well enough."

"Okay," I agree. It is much easier than I'd bargained for! Besides, I like talking to Finnick. It's a nice change from the social solitude I embrace at school. He's funny when he's in a good mood and reminds me of Dash with his endless energy and wit.

"You really want to?" His face brightens for a moment with an almost childish happiness, which he quickly tries to dissolve into a nonchalant shrug.

"Sure," I say.


End file.
